DC 02: Batman, World's Greatest Detective
by byronthedeadpoet
Summary: The origins and early years of the Dark Knight. Part two of my Trinity Trilogy.
1. 1 - Death and Rest

"Beware my terrible sword!" Bruce cried jubilantly, swinging a closed fist and fighting mock combatants.

"Not so far, Bruce," Martha said, her voice raised as he moved ahead of his parents.

"Let the boy play, Martha," said Thomas. "He is a bright boy; he won't go too far."

Martha looked about the city streets. It was an unseasonably cool night for early autumn, and there was something elusive in the night, not quite foreboding.

"I am worried, Thomas," she said, her tone no-nonsense. "I can't put my finger on why, but I'm just worried."

Thomas looked briefly at his wife, then unhesitatingly, he called, "Bruce, why don't you stay a bit closer, son?"

"Aw, dad," Bruce called, "do I have to?"

Martha suddenly felt silly, hearing the tone in her son's voice, "No, no. I am sure that it is just the weather and my nerves."

Thomas smiled, squeezing his wife's hand, "I swear, if you're not careful, you are going to end up spoiling the boy."

She smiled, briefly applying her lips to her husband's cheek, "Well, someone has to. Who better than his mother?"

The Waynes walked slowly, the quiet night still and peaceful around them in their finery, conservatively expensive clothing. Thomas and Martha smiled at their one and only son as he ran rampant, his elaborate adventures played out in exquisite detail before them, his exuberance total, despite the few onlookers that cast wary expressions at the rambunctious youth.

"What are we going to do with him?" Martha asked. "He is only eight and I would imagine that he could take on the entire world out of sheer enthusiasm."

Thomas snorted good-naturedly, "I am sure that he could do whatever he wants to do. There is time enough for all that. Don't make him grow up too fast, Mar."

"Naturally," said Martha, "but look at him; he seems so happy, so energetic. His play won't sustain him forever. What do you think he might like to do when he sets aside childish things?"

Thomas nodded, considering, "I am quite sure he will surprise us."

Bruce turned down a backstreet ahead of them.

"Bruce," Thomas called warily.

"Come one, dad," Bruce called, smiling.

"Let's go this way, Bruce," Martha said, indicating the sidewalk ahead. "We'll go around the block."

"Aw, mom!" he said, taking a few steps down the side street once his parents had arrived and ran several trashcans through with a series of quick thrusts. "Come on! The car is just down this way! Let's go!"

Thomas smiled at his boy, and looked sideways at Martha, "Our son."

Finally, Martha returned the smile indulgently in acquiescence. They followed their son, and though the street was away from the public eye, it was well lit and open. So well lit that they didn't even notice the unlit alleyway at odds with the side street, nor the shape that moved out of the shadows, advancing on the family.

Bruce froze, knowing that something was wrong as if by instinct, but not sure what. His parents noticed his reaction before they saw the figure moving towards them, barely lit until he was upon them.

"Excuse us," said the father, his voice polite but wary. "We were just passing through."

It happened fast.

"Money," said the figure, and his extended hand was wielding the unmistakable shape and gleam of a gun. "Now."

Bruce froze, watching the metal weapon pointed at his father, the romantic notion of the weapon forever lost with the expressions he saw on his parent's faces. Thomas carefully began withdrawing his pocketbook, moving slowly and carefully, his voice remarkably even despite the expression he wore, "That is perfectly alright, sir. Just take the money. It's fine."

Martha's stress was frantic, almost a living creature within her breast, her eyes darting between her son and the gun. She just managed to keep herself from skittering towards Bruce. However, her movements still drew the gun towards her, the speed of its redirection alarming. As though by reflex, Thomas stepped between his wife and the implement of death. The gunman fired.

Bruce jolted a step back with the explosive sound of it, watching as his father, the bravest man he ever knew, crumpled as though he had suddenly fallen asleep, sprawling, no conscious action left in him. His mother caught him, badly. As she held her husband, they both began to slump to the ground, as she screamed and tried to rouse him. The gunman stepped forward, hurriedly, pulling the pearls from the crying woman's neck, breaking them to spill and scatter about the alley. With a look of disgust, he fired again, silencing her as she fell across her husband. The gunman took up the dropped pocketbook, shoving it roughly into his jacket. Turning, he aimed the gun at Bruce's head.

Bruce was wide-eyed, perfectly still, his shock and fear beyond anything the mind of an eight-year-old boy was ever meant to endure. Tears fell without a single emotion playing out upon his face. As the gunman steadied his aim, Bruce closed his eyes, prepared to die.

Suddenly the gunman snorted. As Bruce reopened his eyes, he watched as the gunman loped easily away, as though he hadn't a care in the world. Bruce watched him go, unable to move from that spot. His eyes swept across his parents in a daze. His mother's almost lazy sweeping eyes finally found his. She tried to speak, but no air seemed to be capable of coming out of her. She grew very still and faded away.

Bruce stood there, staring blankly at his parents, blind to everything else in the world, be it light or matter or time, until the officer's coat fell around his thin child's shoulders and strong arms lifted him and carried him away.

Pennyworth stood, holding the umbrella against the rain. The funeral was long and had long ended, the ingratiated public mourning the billionaires that had so tragically fallen. The guests had run the full spectrum, from fellow upper-class friends paying respect to middle-class workers who knew that Waynes for the good people they had been to the impoverished who seemed to think that being here might benefit themselves in some way. But not a one of them seemed to have true compassion for the Waynes' demise or were willing to stand beside the fresh dug graves and bare witness to this entombment with any degree of selflessness. Agendas and pretense abounded, and he found it more than simply distasteful. He was so offended, it showed, in the crease of his eyes and the clench of his jaw; so unseemly.

The so-called mourners had all come and gone, leaving in troves as the weather became poor. And yet the young master stayed, watching the totality of his patrons being laid to rest. Many a man could understand how to hold an umbrella and many more still could do so beside a young charge without protest, even in such conditions, but Pennyworth considered his stance to be something more. As the young master held watch over the burials, Pennyworth stood with all the care and respect his well-disciplined years of service would allow.

Doing his diligence to ensure the young master's safety, he noticed that the only one other person still standing with them, an officer by his poise. He was a man about Thomas Wayne's age, perhaps a bit younger, with a well-kept mustache and glasses. He didn't bother to keep the rain off himself, and stood as a sentry with Pennyworth, both bearing witness to the young master's vigil. Finally, long moments after the mounds of earth were well set, the boy turned towards the car.

Pennyworth walked beside him in silence, drove back to the estate in silence, and walked him inside in silence, having long since learned that the young master would reply when he was ready and not before. He cared for him with all the diligence he had shown his father before him, with all the respect due to a parentless child.

Pennyworth took care of the young master's coat and shoes. He guided him to the parlor where he stoked the fire, leaving him to sit in the warmth with his favorite book beside him. He then went to the kitchen and prepared a simple meal. Upon returning, he found the scene unchanged, save for the book that now resided in the fireplace. He gathered his charge and took him to the lesser dining room, where the young master sat before his meal at great length and ate none. After a respectful passage of time, he cleared up and lead his charge up to his room. He prepared a bath and laid out sleepwear, waiting outside the door should there be a need. He walked beside the young master as he finally walked back to his rooms and tucked him into bed. Pennyworth was about to see himself out when the Bruce spoke for the first time since that fateful night.

"Alfred," he said, his voice sounding dry and cracked.

Pennyworth was able to keep his professional demeanor, despite the very visceral relief that filled him, "Yes, Master Bruce?"

The boy looked at him, his eyes spilling over, "Why did this happen?"

For the first time in all his years of service, he broke from his role. Crossing the room, he knelt and hugged the boy to him. The boy was small and thin in his grief and voiceless in his sorrow.

"These things happen," Pennyworth said. "There is no sense to them, Master Bruce. It cannot be helped."

The boy wavered slightly, "Someone should help it. Someone should stop it. No one should ever have to feel like this, ever again."

At that moment, Pennyworth felt something stir in the boy, a passion, almost an anger, something yet unseen in the child to date. He didn't know what it meant, but he was sure that road ahead would certainly not be an easy one.


	2. 2 - Beyond Expectations

The door to the luxury car slammed. Pennyworth set aside his paper without delay and preceded to start the engine and merge into traffic. One glance in the mirror told him all he needed to know.

"Seat belt, Master Bruce," he said, feigning professional ignorance.

Bruce put on his seat belt, his actions quick and jerky, his expression sour and pinched.

"I won't be going back there, Alfred," Bruce said, staring out the window.

Alfred kept his expression neutral, "And why is that, Master Bruce?"

"It's fake," the Master said, pushing the designer gym bag of gear and uniform onto the floor. "All they do is put on pads and play at fighting. I want to learn to be a real fighter, and this isn't it."

Pennyworth said nothing, pulling onto the highway and heading towards the manor on the outskirts of town. Upon their arrival, he parked the car, taking the Master's bag and escorting him inside.

"I have homework, Alfred," said the Master. "I will work in my father's library."

"One does not wish to speak out of turn," said Pennyworth, "but I feel it necessary to remind Master Bruce that it is now his library."

Bruce said nothing until they were inside. He glanced at the bag in Pennyworth's hand, "Please find something more meaningful to do with that gear. I won't be using it again."

"Very good, sir," Pennyworth said, already cataloging where he could store the gear in case it was needed again.

Bruce began heading upstairs, "I would like dinner in two hours. Lemon trout and butter squash soup, as found in my recipe book."

"A snack, sir?" Pennyworth asked.

Bruce lingered for a moment, "The lightly salted roasted almonds and dried berry mix, and a vitamin water."

"As you say, sir," Pennyworth said, turning to the kitchen. He put the bag away for the moment, and prepared the Master's snack and drink while looking over the recipes, which were much simpler than the gourmet meals he used to prepare for Thomas Wayne. The Master had been compiling his own recipes for nearly a year now, something Pennyworth appreciated. He had everything he would need, knowing better than to attempt to add anything to improve the flavor, for the Master preferred his meals as they were written.

Pennyworth took the tray upstairs, pausing just outside the library before entering. Through the partially open door, he could see the Master was sitting stock-still, two books, one open and one closed, laid before him with some papers set to one side.

Pennyworth knocked, and with a deft and nearly silent hand, the Master closed the open volume and opened the closed, setting a paper over the one he had just had to hand.

"Your previsions, sir," Pennyworth said.

The Master gestured to the corner of the desk nearest the door, "If you would, Alfred."

Pennyworth set the tray with the small dish and bottled water where it was indicated, his quick eye noting the title of the closed book; Modern Forensic Sciences. He turned and watched as Bruce fidgeted, swinging his feet, shifting almost restlessly in his seat, slouching to one side, drumming his pencil on the corner of An American History, Grade 4. He backed out of the room, closing the door slightly but still enough to see by. After a count of about four, Bruce straightened, opening both books, writing and taking notes as his eyes slid over each volume in turn, his manner and posture easily comparable to a particularly studious post-grad medical student. His movements were precise, his eyes always moving, his handwriting or turning a page or fetching a fistful of food from the bowl or pulling the bottle to his lips. It didn't take long for Pennyworth to realize that he was doing his homework and, apparently, studying forensics at the same time.

Pennyworth returned to his room, having time before he needed to begin the Master's meal. He looked over the reports he had been receiving from the Master's tutors, trying to piece it together. It took him only a few minutes to notice a pattern, once he knew to look for one. Starting with the second grade period after his parents' passing, his average was almost painstakingly the same. If all the grades for a single period were averaged, they were nearly exactly an average eighty-seven every grading period.

As he prepared the Master's dinner, Pennyworth rolled the information around in his thoughts, again and again, trying to figure out what it meant. He plated the meal and set the table in the kitchen where he ate with the Master, at his request. Checking the time and seeing that he was on schedule, he went upstairs, knocked, and announced that, "Dinner is served."

The Master slid out of his chair, not bothering to gather or straighten his workspace. They returned to the kitchen table and sat together. They ate in near silence until Pennyworth noted that the young master was paying a great deal of attention to him.

"Is the meal insufficient?" he asked.

The Master shook his head, "It is fine, Alfred."

For a long moment, Pennyworth wondered what he should do. Looking briefly into the boy's eyes, he realized his station. The Master was placed into his charge and was to be raised under his supervision. He had a right and a responsibility to make sure that the Master was receiving everything that he needed, and a sub-part education was not something he needed.

"Master Bruce," Pennyworth said, and immediately, the Master seemed to perk up.

"Yes, Alfred?" he asked.

Pennyworth folded his napkin and rolled his shoulders back, "Sir, I feel it is necessary to restructure your schooling."

"Why is that?" the Master asked.

Alfred took a moment to find his exact wording, "It has come to my attention that you are capable of taking more advanced courses, sir."

The Master set down his spoon, folding his hands in a way that made him look remarkably like his father, though obviously younger, and somewhat more sullen.

"You may speak plainly, Alfred," said the Master.

Pennyworth nodded, "I witnessed the book you were reading and your study habits, sir. After looking over your grades, I have reason to believe that you fabricated your scores and that you could have done much better than you did."

"What reason?" asked the Master.

Pennyworth was momentarily unsure. He suddenly felt like he was being interrogated, but that wasn't what concerned him; it was that the questions seemed to have been prepared, or at least considered, in advance.

"Your grading average is maintained, sir," he said. "Such a pattern could only be purposeful."

The master nodded, "You are correct, Alfred."

Alfred was suddenly taken aback, "Was this a test, Master Bruce?"

"Yes, Alfred," he said. "And you passed."

Pennyworth suddenly swallowed, "And if I had failed, sir?"

The Master looked at him, not coldly or harshly, and not with a masked expression; he looked at Pennyworth with a look of complete indifference.

"You would have been replaced," the Master said.

Pennyworth looked at the Master, feeling at first offended, then concerned, then slowly, his face relaxed.

"You needed to be sure, sir," Pennyworth said, "to be sure that I could think, could pay attention, could understand."

"And," the Master continued, "to know that you would speak up, that you would bring concerns to me and do the right thing, even if it was hard or uncomfortable."

Pennyworth looked at the young master, and thought it didn't show on his face, he pitied the boy for how much the world had broken his trust and his faith in all things good.

"I am your servant, sir," said Pennyworth, hoping the sympathy wasn't too evident in his voice.

The Master shook his head only slightly, "Alfred, I need something more. I can hire anyone to keep this home and serve my meals and organize my life for me. What I need is someone who can do more, much more than just follow my blind word. I can learn from a book, but I have only had ten years to learn about how to live, and need help learning more, faster. I can only learn so much from books, and I can't afford the time it will take to learn all about living from growing up. I need someone who will help me, guide me, who understands who I am and not treat me like a child."

Pennyworth thought it over and realized just how much this experience had shown him that the Master was, in every sense of the word other than the physical, not a child.

"But why, Master Bruce?" asked Pennyworth. "What is this all for?"

The master shook his head, "I am not sure, Alfred. I need to do something important, to fix this... I don't know. The city, the law, society, the people, so that crimes like the one that stole my parents from me never happen again. I just haven't figured it out yet."

They finished their meal in silence. Just before clearing away the meal, the Master pulled a folded paper from his pocket.

"I want everything on this list started by tomorrow night, and done by no later than the end of the week," he said.

"Yes, sir," he said, reading it aloud. "Arrange a meeting with Mr. Dent, hire personal trainers from out of state in the following disciplines: Krav Maga, Pankration, Ninjutsu, gymnastics, physical fitness. Cancel tutors. Enroll in public school?"

"I need more experience with people," he said. "I have been learning about human psychology, but I don't have enough hands-on experience, hence school. The rest I will explain in time, Alfred. For now, I need to finish up my studies and sleep. We have a big day tomorrow."

...

"Hey, J," called the voice, "Where you at?"

J sat on the box, saying nothing, and flipped another card. The deck was old and worn around the edges, but that was alright to J. The cards were the oldest thing he owned, having had them longer than he could remember, which was longer than he had had his name.

"Let me hear you J," said the voice again, and J looked around. He had been on the streets a long time, so long, he couldn't even remember why, and in that time, he had learned the hard lesson of silence. If you aren't quiet, things hurt you.

He found an old can, and rapped it quietly against the end of the box, but still loud enough that it could be heard.

"There you are, little man," Ray said, a boy of around fifteen, six years older than J. "Did you eat today?"

J looked up and whispered, "No."

"That's okay," said Ray kindly, "I was able to grab a couple apples from the grocery on Cicero. Here."

J took the apple, took a couple bites, and went back to playing with his cards.

"Come on, J," said Ray. "You need to eat, buddy. Really. It's important."

J didn't really pay any attention. He was looking at the Jack of Spades, the letter on the card where the name Ray had given him had come from. He liked the cards. They were familiar and somehow powerful. Cards were always in motion, always moving, like people. Yet they always followed certain rules, and, even if those rules could change, even if they could be face down and you couldn't know what cards were what, they were always what they were and nothing else.

"Don't be that way," said Ray. "I know things are tough right now, but they won't always be. What did I say the day we met?"

J remembered the day Ray found him, hiding in a dumpster, nearly starved, clutching his deck. There hadn't been anything before that; running, stealing, silence, and fear. He could never go back to the before, and he never wanted to. Ray had made things better. Not good, but certainly better.

"What did I say?" asked Ray.

J looked at him weakly, and said, "Someday, we are going to look back on this a laugh."

"Right, someday," said Ray, "we are going to be safe, have jobs, a place to live, and be happy. Until then, you just gotta smile, learn to laugh, even at the really bad stuff. Okay, J?"

J nodded and turned back to his cards.

"Put those away," said Ray. "We are going to go hang out! We had our food and now let's go hang out, maybe have some fun."

J sighed and gathered up his cards, carefully arranging them back into his feathered box.

"What do you say?" asked Ray, smiling and coming up short. "Want to go see Tina?"

J's eyes became wider, and he nodded several times.

The trek to the nearby coffee shop was not a long journey, but it was further from their usual haunts than they normally went. However, for homeless boys, there were few places to hang out that were as sympathetic to their lives as Connie's Coffees, and the coolest member of the staff by far, especially since she was only about a year older than Ray, was Tina.

"Hey," said Ray as they entered Connie's, well worn and frequented by everyone, with no general theme other than feeling lived in and seemingly catering to everyone at once. "There she is! How are you, Tina?"

Tina cocked a hip and grinned as she tilted her head to look sideways at the boys, her blond pigtail jostling, "Well, how are you two doing today?"

"Avoiding foul play," said Ray. "Do you have any unclaimed coffee we might partake in?"

She crossed her arms and looked playfully reluctant, "I might be able to scare something up."

"Our love for you is deeper than words can convey," said Ray.

They stayed and drank coffee, and J didn't say much, such was his habit. He followed Ray's lead, as he did in most everything. Tina hung out with them as much as she could, slipping them both a pastry here and there.

"What you are doing for J is really something," she said to Ray on one of her passes. "He is lucky to have someone like you looking after him."

"Yeah, he's a good ole stray," said Ray ruffling J's hair. "The kid would be nothing with me."

J nodded in agreement, and both laughed, a little sadly.

"I was kidding, J," said Ray. "Learn to take a joke."

At length, they had to say their goodbyes, and Tina needed to get back to work.

"Come back soon, you too," she said, giving Ray a long look.

As they walked out, J looked up and said, "You should ask her out."

"What did you say?" asked Ray, laughing. "You think I should ask her out? Really? You practically never speak, and now you think I should ask out Tina, a girl that fine!?"

J nodded, his face devoid of emotion.

"I suppose a guy can pray," said Ray, then looked up the block. "How about this? You go stand by that last parking meter. If I can make it over each of them without falling, then I will go back in there and ask her out, deal?"

J nodded vigorously. He trotted down to the last meter and stood, waiting.

Ray made a show preparing himself, waving his arms back and forth, picking up his knees and taking deep breaths. He ran up to the first meter, his hands folding over the top as he vaulted. He landed, stumbling, but did not fall. Smiling, he jumped the second, and the third, his landings becoming steadier and more sure with every leap. J watched in silence.

"Come on!" called Ray. "Smile, kid! Today is my day!"

He came to the final meter and leaped, his hands hardly touching the top. He landed, but his balance faltered and he leaned to one side, trying to stay upright. He stepped on the curb, his ankle rolling, and he only managing to keep from putting his entire weight on the side of his foot by stepping off the curb.

"Man, that could have hurt," said Ray, turning to look up at J just before the bus hit him.

It didn't blare its horn or slam on the breaks. With a splatter and a crunch, Ray was gone.

J stood there, splatter with the blood of the only person he had ever known who ever came close to family. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it dripping from his chin, soaking through his only clothes. And, for the first time in living memory, he began to laugh.


	3. 3 - Business

Dent, a slightly paunchy and gray-templed man, carried himself with a no-nonsense rigidness. He rang the bell, turning to his son who stood beside him on the Wayne manor stoop.

"I said you could come with me, Harvey," said Dent, "but only if you were on your best behavior. I am not sure why Bruce wants to talk to me, but this is not a playdate; it's work."

"Yeah, dad," said Harvey with more than a hint of exasperation. "I heard you at home, and twice on the way over. I got it."

Dent was about to retort when a screen sprang to life beside the door, showing a thin Englishman with a thinner mustache.

"Ah," he said. "Mr. Dent. I commend you for your punctuality. I shall be at the door shortly."

The door opened a moment later, and the butler showed them in, his mien professional and his suit as well kept as that mustache. He showed them into the first-floor study, where Thomas usually received him. The boy was sitting in his father's relatively oversized chair, and the image would have been laughable if not for the seriousness of his expression.

"Mr. Dent," said the boy. "Thank you for agreeing to seem me at my home. Can I offer you a drink?"

Dent blinked at him, then glanced at his son. The tone and cadence had been a near perfect imitation of his father. It had taken him a moment not to immediately agree to the drink and thank him, as he had always done Thomas. The routine usually put him at ease with its familiarity, but this was almost macabre to him.

He glanced at his son again and said, "No thank you, Mr. Wayne."

The title had come to his lips more readily than "Bruce", the habit with his previous employer ingrained. Harvey belted out a sharp guffaw before the look from his father silenced him and forced his eyes to the carpet.

"I'll make this brief," said the young man. "I am interested in learning about the goings on in my father's company. It will my mine in more than name someday, and I want a head start in learning about it."

"I don't see how...," said Mr. Dent, his voice trailing off before he collected himself and said, "Okay, Bruce. What do you need from me?"

"I need you to work up a contract," he said. "Nothing too complex. I simply want the company to be protected from me, should I disclose sensitive information to the wrong people."

Mr. Dent felt even more wrong footed than before, "Do you intend to?"

"Oh, no," said Bruce, a smile settling on his face. "If I was, I wouldn't want the company protected. All I want is access to memos, personal files, the minutes from board meetings, and information on general projects. I want to be able to see who works for the company and what they are doing. Nothing more. No controlling interest, no interference. Just information."

"And you think you'll be able to understand what you want to look at?" asked Dent.

Bruce bobbed his head from side to side, as though considering, "Probably not. At first. But it will let me know what I need to learn about."

Dent furrowed his brow, "Even if I work up the contracts, there is no guarantee that the board will go for it. You are only a boy, and they may not care to give you what you want."

Bruce slapped the arms of his chair with gusto, "Let me worry about that. Draw up the contracts and I will take care of the rest."

Dent knew a dismissal before it was spoken, "Thank you, Bruce. I'll have those for you in a day or two. Come along, Harvey."

Harvey didn't move, he just looked at Bruce. The slight charisma was gone, the geniality. Bruce stood there, his face impassive, his eyes hard-edged, his posture still.

"Dad," Harvey said, "can I stay for dinner?"

Dent looked as though his son had just walked in the door wreaking of skunk.

"You shouldn't invite yourself over to other peoples' house," he rebuked harshly, Harvey flinching away.

"He can stay," Bruce interjected, suddenly a foot closer to Dent, the chair he had been in spinning despite its weight.

"I would be happy to return Young Master Harvey home after our evening meal," said the butler.

Dent expression soured a moment, then, unanimously outnumbered, he said, "You have homework."

"My school bag is in the car," Harvey said. "I can get it and do my homework here."

Dent adjusted his grip on his briefcase and said, "Very well, come along."

The two returned momentarily to the car. Out of sight from the house, Dent grabbed Harvey by the scruff of his shirt, leaning over his son.

"Don't you dare show me up like that in front of our betters," he said, eyes and gnashing teeth all that Harvey could see. "If you ever try this again, I swear, you'll only be recognizable when seen from the right."

He dropped Harvey, who just managed to keep from falling. Grabbing his bag out of the backseat, he headed back to the huge house. Just before he reached the door, he glared back, a glint of undisguised murderous intent in his eye.

Once back inside, the butler showed Harvey to a wing of the house where long-term guests usually stayed. In the communal rooms was a game room, one that he had spent many days in with Bruce, before, when they spent time together over two years ago.

Bruce was standing beside a foosball table, idly pushing a scored tab back and forth, his face blank.

"That will be all, Alfred," he said, and the butler left.

The silence was soon long and awkward, and Harvey finally walked up and said, "It's been a long-"

"I'm sorry," Bruce said abruptly, then was quiet a moment before going on, "that we stopped being friends."

Harvey nodded, "I wasn't mad. I mean, I didn't get it and I wasn't happy about it, but I wasn't mad. I get it now, though."

"I heard," Bruce said, "about your mom."

"MacGregor's Syndrome," said Harvey, tightening his fists for a moment, "It was quick. I hated that, but I was glad too. Like, at least she didn't have to suffer long."

Bruce thought about it and nodded, "Yeah. That's good."

There was another weighty silence, and then, "Do you still have the dreams?"

Harvey nodded, "She is half in a pool of drying cement. I keep trying to pull her out, but she just keeps sinking deeper in. And just before she goes under, I realize she's not her, she's me, and I'm both drowning and trying to save myself. You?"

Bruce looked around, "House fire. I'm out on the lawn, and Alfred is holding on to me and won't let me go back in and try and save them. They are in here, and it's all burning down."

Harvey nodded again, "Do you think you could save them?"

Bruce looks at the large room, part of the even larger house, "I don't know. But I won't stop trying, not ever. For as long as I have the dream, I won't stop."

...

Mario walked down the street, Lou and Mike beside him, heading towards The Restaurant.

"I don't get it," said Mike, "Alberto wants to put together a hit squad and role the whole damned precinct, get all the drugs that we didn't pay for because we called in an anonymous tip and got the Colombians busted, and then demand that the Colombians lower their prices if they can't guarantee their product?"

"What's not to get?" asked Lou. "It's a good plan. We get a price cut and a free shipment."

"It's a dumb plan," said Mario. "We won't get a price cut; we'll get cut. The Colombians want a clean business and this double-crossing-"

A kid came full tilt out of the alley, bumping into Mario and just managing not to knock him to the ground.

"Hey!" yelled Mike, his hand in his coat. The kid saw where his hand was and laughed.

"Watch it, kid," snarled Mario.

The kid chuckled and walked away, heading in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

"Kids these days," said Mario. "Anyway, double-crossing is going to get us all good and dead. Alberto is going to take a few on the wrist for doing something stupid, The Roman will buy us out of this predicament, and Alberto will have to..."

Mario unconsciously patted his coat for his wallet just before they entered the restaurant and the pocket was empty. He checked his other pockets with a quick series of slaps.

"Why that little-" he turned, the kid was still in plain sight.

"Get him," he said, pointing at the kid, his voice purposefully not carrying.

The two men moved, but they hadn't taken more than two steps before the kid broken into a run, howling as he went. The two men ran, but the kid was fast and turned down an alley. Mario shook his head and took up the charge himself. He overtook the two men and caught the kid by the back of his shirt. The kid pulled a small knife and took a swipe at Mario, who managed to jump back but didn't release the kid. By the time the kid had figured out to go for the hand that held him, the two other men had caught up and held the kid down.

"Do you have any idea who you are messing with, kid?" asked Lou.

The kid grinned a mouthful of yellowing teeth at them, "Mario Falcone."

Both men almost let go of the kid in shock.

Mario looked at the kid, closer. He was a street punk, for sure, but he was not the thinnest street punk he had seen. The knife was new and sharp, and the kid looked like he had showered in the last week at least.

"You are smart enough to know who I am and dumb enough to steal from me?" asked Mario.

The kid snorted, "Your wallet had the best chances of having the most cash."

Mario nodded, "Not bad, kid, but you don't know everything. I don't carry cash. Those who know me know I don't pay, and those who don't get money from these to numbskulls."

"Boss," said Lou reproachfully.

"Come on, with that," said Mario. "This kid would have outrun you louts. I'm serious, you two are running with me in the mornings from now on. You need to take care of yourselves."

"What about the kid?" Mike said, turning to him, "Are you scared of nothing? Mario could have your cute little lungs ripped out for what you just did."

The kid twisted, kicking Lou in the crouch as he turned towards Mike. Levering himself up on Mike's arm, the kid threw up his legs around Mike's head, catching the ground as his weight pulled Mike off his feet. He sat on Mike's chest, pulling a second knife and stopping it so close to Mike's eye that he couldn't blink. Mario only marveled. The kid was quick and he knew his way around a knife.

"Death happens," the kids said, his smile from ear to ear. "You can't stop it. Laugh while you can, and take what you can get, because death won't give you a second chance."

The kid stood up, the knife disappearing, Mario didn't catch where. He doubted it was the only one he still had on him.

"So," Mario said. "You want a job or what?"

"That would be just grand," said the kid.

Mike got up, looking sideways at the kid, and Lou kept his distance.

"What do we call you kid?" asked Mario.

The kid chuckled, "What doesn't that matter? You'll probably just call me Kid anyway."

"You're a real Joker, ain't you kid?" said Lou.

The kid smiled at him, a manic gleam in his eye, "I suppose I am, aren't I? You may call me J."


	4. 4 - Cause and Affect

Bruce sat at the computer and logged into the Wayne Enterprises mainframe. He frowned, as he usually did, though there was nothing he could do about his discomfort for the time being. The contracts had been written up, and while he understood that the board might not give him access to everything he wanted, he had not considered that they might only give him access to the one thing he really desired and nothing else.

The personal files were, at least, very detailed. One might have thought unnecessarily so, but when peopling the main headquarters of a multibillion-dollar enterprise, the order of the day seemed to be due diligence. Each file had a lengthy section dedicated to the employee's education, including not only grades and exam scores but also teacher and professor information. There were interviews with around one teacher per year of schooling, as well as evaluations of those teachers. There was also psyche tests and a few other practicals that Wayne Enterprises seemed to administer themselves, testing common sense, critical logical, out of the box thinking, and so forth. Each file ended with a number of variables, out of a hundred; education, intelligence, experience, independence, originality, honesty, and loyalty.

Bruce was highly amused by the board's files. Most were highly educated but not intelligent. They were highly independent but were limited in experience or originality. They were fiercely loyal and not very honest. When he wondered how they might feel about their numbers, he discovered that, when viewing your own file, you could only view the information in it, and not the final seven variables.

His purpose was two-fold in looking through the personal files. One, he did, in fact, want to understand his future business, even if it would be run by proxy; getting to know and understand the employees, as well as the system used to learn more about them, was a huge step in that direction. And two, he wanted to know what resources he might have at his disposal. Even if he couldn't wait until he was their direct employer, he had enough disposable income to commission them for whatever purpose he needed.

As he finished looking through the last batch of personal files, two individuals had stood out largely to him. The first was Earl Cooper. He was a mechanic in Wayne Industries' automotive department. He excelled at design and optimization, and he was currently using his talents to design sports and luxury car components. His scores were relatively average, save for intelligence and independence. Bruce got the impression that loyalty would have been higher if not for the records of him butting heads with his supervisor. A number of the designs Cooper had turned in were too good, meaning that they worked for such a long period of time, the price would need to be so high as to be unmarketable in order to compensate for the low turnover. Cooper protested when his designs were shelved, but he only did so once and never again since.

The second name belonged to that of Lucius Fox. He had an unexceptional high school career, aside from being salutatorian. He attended Metropolis University where he studied a variety of subjects, everything from metallurgy and engineering to business management and global economy. He finally graduated with a major in economics and a minor in electrical engineering. He had a brief internship at a company called Astro Labs, which had won some patents off Fox through a technicality in their contract with him. The management was let go for their very public underhanded behavior, but the company kept the patents. Fox left Metropolis for his hometown of Gotham. After a single interview, he was granted an entry-level position in the Applied Sciences department of Wayne Industries. He had made meager accomplishments since then when compared to Astro Labs, which had since it's stock prices nearly triple and been bought out and renamed Star Labs. Bruce thought that was understandable.

He logged off the computer after making a few notes and heading out of the computer lab at Pinkney Academy, the high-end primary school that was nonetheless open to the general public. He passed the many uniformed students and headed to the courtyard where he usually met Harvey. Their meetings were more of habit than anything else, and while Bruce wouldn't really call Harvey more than an acquaintance, he was still the closest thing he had to a friend and they had developed a camaraderie of sorts. Harvey was sitting with Tommy, a sometime associate of the two boys who were down three parents.

Bruce was prepared for the coming event, but he knew that the other boys were not. He felt bad for that, but he had no way of warning them without letting them know that he knew.

He unslung his satchel and sat, finishing the last of his foodstuffs that he had been munching throughout the day.

"Hey, Bruce," said Harvey. "Where were you?"

"Computer lab," Bruce said around an organic baby carrot.

"Doing what?" asked Tommy, sounding interested.

Bruce chewed and swallowed, "Sorting through the personal files of a multibillion-dollar corporation, looking for individuals I may need to hire in order to eliminate all crime in Gotham."

Tommy and Harvey looked at each other and finally laughed.

"Okay," said Tommy, "don't tell us then."

"Hey, Wayne!" someone cried, and Bruce turned to see four large boys coming towards their little group. They were older than Tommy, who was at least a year older than Bruce. They were thugs, he knew it, but who's? Certainly not Roman's. The options were limited, and it only took one look around to spot them.

Bruce didn't bother talking to the puppets and talked to the puppeteers.

"Roman," he said loudly, "Oswald. Why don't you come and talk?"

The slender youth with the thin clawed scars on his face glared with a blatant ferocity, "You don't tell me what to do, Wayne. We aren't friends no more. My parents don't give one wit about your name since mommy and daddy got put in the ground."

Bruce was on his feet. He had expected this, had known that it would likely come to this, but he hadn't expected that it would be so effective. He was prepared to fight, outnumbered and barely trained, woefully unprepared, and he was ready to fight and fail from the first reference to his parents.

"Hey!" said Tommy loudly. "That's totally out of line!"

"Stay out of this, Elliot!" snapped Roman. "I'll have words with your little boyfriend if I damn well please!"

Roman came forward, his rotund companion waddling in tow, but there was something about it, an acceptance, that Bruce couldn't place and didn't like that he couldn't understand.

"You ratted us out," said Roman as he came up to Bruce, though still out of easy reach. "You said we cheated on our history exam."

"Did you?" asked Bruce, his tone flat and indifferent.

"That's not the point!" roared Roman.

Bruce nodded. Anger. It was about anger. It made them predictable. The right word whispered in the right ear, whether or not it was true, was enough to incite this battle.

Bruce wasn't ready. He hadn't the training he needed or the conditioning to his body or the time needed to have real strength. But if he didn't have what took to face a few schoolyard bullies and risk losing, he would never be able to stand against a city of criminals.

"What's your part in this, Oswald?" asked Bruce. Roman didn't have the social clout to inspire followers or the disposable money to buy loyalty. The thugs had to come from somewhere.

Oswald smiled, something oily about his expression, "I have no part in this. What you do is your business, and what my friend Roman does is his business. I am only an observer, a fly on the wall. It cannot be helped what I am observing or how I happen to be associated with them."

Bruce sorted through his thoughts with determination and found his answer; it was about responsibility. It wasn't Roman's fault he was going to assault fellow students. It was Bruce's for telling. It wasn't Oswald's fault that Roman would fight with his thugs. He was just supporting his friend and an innocent bystander. And even the thugs weren't responsible. They were only doing the biddings of others. Understanding the pattern meant foresight to Bruce, being one step ahead and the power that entailed was heady.

Bruce considered; if what they did wasn't their fault, getting punished didn't matter. They would find some way to explain it, just like they would explain how it wasn't their fault that they did what got them in trouble. But what could stop them if not punishment?

"Oh come on," griped Roman. "Will you take care him already?"

The thugs stepped forward. Bruce wasn't ready, not the way he wanted to be, but he was ready enough. Pain didn't scare him. It was nothing to what he already had felt.

Just before they closed on him, there was a scream from behind Bruce, so cracked and monstrous, it could barely be recognized as human. Harvey rushed forward, slamming into the first bully's gut, knocking him to the ground. He was suddenly on the bully's chest, punching him in the face, each blow punctuated with another inhuman cry. After a moment of stunned disbelief, the other two bullies tried to pull Harvey off. He punched one in the knee, the other the groin, and though both were not backed by the strength manhood supplied, the blows were enough to waylay further interference as Harvey returned to the first bully.

Bruce took what seemed a protracted moment, looking around at everyone witnessing what was going on. They stood well back, many gawking and more than a few who looked as though they wished they could look away, and yet still more hurried past it, trying to ignore what was happening. It was written everywhere, in all of them, in everything that the bullies did, in every onlooker, even in Harvey's tear-streaked face; fear. It was all about fear.


	5. 5 - Superiority

J's apartment was sparsely adorned. It couldn't even really be called a studio, in many respects, but he was used to far less. He had a shower and a toilet, which were separated from the rest of the one room by a wall that didn't reach the ceiling. He had a mini-frig and a sink large enough to wash half a dish at a time in, with barely enough counter space for a microwave. He had a mattress which he kept off the floor with a few sheets of stack plywood, a rack where he hung his clothes, and a lockbox he kept in plain sight, which contained nothing valuable.

J only had a few items he truly valued; his blades, which he kept on or near his person, readily available at all times; his first deck, his lucky deck, and his fancy deck, each he kept in a different pocket of a different suit, when he didn't have one of them on his person; and lastly, his simple flip cell phone, which he could receive texts and calls for his job, the job that had let him learn more about himself than he had ever thought possible.

He was sitting on his bed, reading the section of a chemistry book on acids when his phone beeped. He checked it and saw a mass text that said to meet at The Restaurant. After dawning his new suit, running a comb through his hair and double checking all his blades, J slipped his lucky deck into a pocket and walked out the door, locking it behind him.

He walked into The Restaurant with a swagger and a smile. More than one patron turned to stare at him, but the ones who knew him looked once than moved their eyes quickly away. He came up to the small, conservative, and cultured bar, where the bartender set a martini on the bar in front of a stool next to Lou.

"Hey, J," he said without looking, "how are y- the hell?!"

He stared at the grinning teen, his wavy hair now a nearly neon shade of orange.

"Oh, come on," said Lou. "That's just in poor taste."

Nothing could turn J's grin upside down. He sported his new suit, purple and green pinstripe, which clashed beautifully with his hair.

"You look like you belong in a circus," said Lou, turning back to his drink. "The point is to not draw attention to yourself. The easier you are to notice, the easier you are to spot in a lineup."

J grinned, thinking what expression he could form if he should ever be in a lineup, how he could convey what awaited the witness that tried to pin a crime on him. A bit of it must have slipped onto his face because two patrons quickly looked away, and, though he wasn't sure, the child that started crying shortly thereafter might have been his doing as well.

"You're such a creep," said Lou, looking sideways at him. "Why does Mario put up with you, anyway?"

J only smiled. Not many knew how he made his money, not even those close to Mario. But Mario was a smart man who knew what he had in J, who respected him for it. When he wanted someone not easily scared terrified, he called J. When he wanted information from a tough nut or a woman, he called J. When he wanted someone stuck with a blade, he called J. And when he wanted someone to die screaming...

J was good at what he did. His years of service were grand practice and he honed his art with a dedication that few true artists possessed. And he was an artist. Even Mario saw that. The not unattractive youth in the nice suits, always with a smile, a smile that contrasted so staggeringly so from his actions and nature. His initially disarming appearance would not change, even as he became the creative and imaginative dispatcher of pain and death.

"You know what you need?" asked Lou rhetorically, setting down a stiff, iceless drink after an impressive pull. "You need a good woman. I've seen it a dozen times over. Some hothead kid, walking around with a brass pair and something to prove, and bam! A girl walks in, the right girl, not these party girls all the boys go for these days, and she sets him straight, shows him he's an idiot with a smile and a kiss and shows him the value in being respectable. You isn't queer or nothing, right?"

J turned as one of the waitresses walked past, wearing the traditional white dress shirt and black slacks. Under the shirt, she wore a bra with light gray trim, nearly unnoticeable unless you really looked for it or expected to see it. She noticed his eyes upon her, looking momentarily startled and then rather thrilled. She almost walked into a patron, and the subsequent commotion caught Lou's attention.

"I guess not," said Lou. "Ask a girl out, and keep doing it. If she'll date ya with that hair, she's a good woman."

J was about to dismiss the prospect out of turn when he realized the idea had possibility. Downing the rest of his drink in one fell swoop, he thanked Lou for his wondrous idea and walked out of The Restaurant, despite Lou pointing out that Mario called them all in.

The Goyle was an infrequent haunt, a romp of the disenfranchised, old enough to be cynical and young enough to see partying as the most appropriate alternative. The term for the scene was often stated as neon-noir, and J loved the metaphorical resonances. The traditional, thick-walled, Gothic architecture was represented beside the flash and glow of neon and strobe lights, electronica and pop-art flowing throughout, the old and new mixing artistically, allowing patrons to embrace the future while respecting the past. It was a sanctuary for all, a place where the ironic hipsters could party beside those wearing death metal grunge, the sophisticate beside the goth, the modern primitive beside the technophile.

J's reputation preceded him, and the long line and lack of ID were no obstacle. There was a not entirely undue wave of protest when he was admitted upon arrival, followed by a few scantily clad women that proverbially threw themselves at him once they saw his social clout. He found their behavior laughable, as he did most behavior.

Upon entering, he marveled at the crowds around him; the universe, in all its infinite complexities and all it feats of unfathomable creation, had built the animal known as humans, a being capable of comprehending its own existence, as well as a cornucopia of constructs that never existed, and who chose to spend their lives making ludicrously stupid decisions and not appreciating the world around them. It was enough to make J smile.

He fit right in with the eclectic fashions, finding a spot to stand, a pillar at his back, where he could survey the club inconspicuously. From there he began to plan. He knew how to hone an art, which is why he was here. There was an certain artistry to finding a person, especially one who was no idiot, then twisting her, bending her to his will, dominating her. Lou was right; he needed a good woman, so he could show her that she was really a bad one.

J knew that if he was honest with himself, he had no context for the social interactions of picking up woman. So he tried a bit of everything he could think of, embracing his ignorance and entire lack of fear when it came to what they might think. The first group of girls he approached were dressed for a dance club and seemed rather amazed by the string of expletives he used upon greeting them. They were so taken aback that they weren't even indignant when he referred to them with degrading and misogynistic terms, though they ultimately moved on without reservations.

He sliced into the crowd, again and again, finding women, at first in twos and threes, but then less as he began to see. His actions were brokered by no social constraints, and he observing them openly, often creepily, taking in all and tabulating a list of characteristics. Women alone, with mostly downcast eyes, unaware of the world around them, those with timid motions, with dull or dark clothing that few would notice. Yet once his list was complete, all the girls he found broken, uninteresting, doubtlessly sub-par.

He was becoming irritated, damning the crowd for its unhelpful selection, as suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, his thought, though not his hand, going for his blade. Something about the hand's touch was non-threatening. He found himself face to face with a girl, easily a few years older than himself but obviously not of drinking age. She had vibrant platinum hair, green under the black light, her face pale, giving away her makeup. Her eyes dripped at the corners like blackened tears, her lips matching in shade. Her fashion was a bit muddled, cheaply assorted, most looking second hand, all except the corset which was expensive but well worn. The rest of her outfit was composed mostly of fishnet and vinyl, with a little faux leather and touches of lace thrown in for good measure. Her expression was open but guarded, as though she were peaking out a door that still had the safety chain engaged.

There was a lull in the music and she said over the crowd, "You look lost."

Being set upon was out of the norm for J. He was used to having others look at him with mistrust or fear. As it was, he recovered quickly, "Aren't we all?"

She smiled at that. Without the appearance of a second thought, she grabbed his hand and led him to a relatively secluded booth.

"Hi," she said, once she had pulled him down to sit. "I'm Halee."

"I'm J," said J, watching her intently.

"What is that short for?" she asked, and he only smiled at her.

"Okay, J," she said, sounding goodnaturedly ribbed, "who are you? What do you do? Why do you exist?"

For a moment, J could only smile. He knew the answers to all of these questions, but he also knew how most people responded.

"If I tell you," he said, "do you think you are capable of believing what I say?"

She blinked at him, her expression turning to interest, "Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"So far," he said with a chuckle, "no one has. Or they reject what I say because they don't want to believe it."

"Believe what?" she asked, her intent fixed.

He smiled, "The world is a lie."

She said nothing, as the others did, looking neither shocked nor surprised, but also showing no sign that it had settled in yet. He went on.

"We live our lives in a constant state of self-denial. We want to be perfect and we tell ourselves that we are when we aren't. We beat it into our children that anything short of perfection is intolerable, and we do everything we can to inconvenience those who inconvenience us. We hold onto the lie so desperately that we will do everything we can not to acknowledge it, even agree that we do lie like this just so people will stop trying to get us to agree that we do. We can't be honest for fear of rejection, for fear that we won't be good enough if we aren't above being human. And, that's the irony."

"What is?" asked Halee.

"I am better," he said. "I figured out the lie and I gave it up. I'm not afraid of being rejected by people because they are a bunch of liars. The world is just one big joke that I know the punchline to, and I seem to be the only one. I am unafraid and above the lie, and because of that, I am better than everyone I have ever met so far."

She stared at him a long moment, then said, "That sounds lonely."

He blinked at her, snorting a moment, then silent again.

"If you are above everyone," she said, "then you can't value anyone. It would be easy to hurt them and think nothing of it. You could never be close to anyone because you would always be apart from them. You could never truly love anyone."

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, hesitantly slow, he moved around to her side of the booth. With restrained motions, he came close to her, finally throwing a leg over hers to sit astride her lap. His expression was so open, as though memorizing her features and face, a look of near ecstasy upon his countenance. She put her arms around the small of his back. She leaned in to kiss him, and his fingers met her lips, as though to prolong the moment, to create anticipation. He smile went wide, as did her right eye. Her left remained as it was, full of his slender blade, now pinning her to the booth wall.

His look of enthrallment peaked, his hand covering her screams and the other expertly containing her struggles. His face, so close to hers, hid her from the room at large, allowing him to watch as she slipped away and was finally still. So quick was his blade and so well leveled that he hadn't caught her eyelid, not even when he withdrew the implement. Closing both her eyes, she looked only asleep, the mess a part of her makeup in the darken booth. Cleaning his blade and returning it to its sheath, he walked out, a smile he had never yet worn upon his lips.


	6. 6 - Broken System

Jim finished up his paperwork for the Monroe Liquors shooting. A seventeen-year-old kid, held up a liquor store so he could buy a six-pack for his buddies. The shopkeep spoke English as a second language and as frustrations grew over the miscommunications, he pulled his own weapon. He shot the kid seven times, once in the face. The kid fired six times, emptying the gun, hitting the shopkeep once. The kid died on the scene, and the shopkeep died in the hospital an hour later during surgery. Jim shook his head. There were so many ways that the situation could have gone down after which both could have lived. Sometimes, he wasn't the biggest fan of people.

"Lieutenant," said a young voice at his elbow. He turned to see a ghost, a young man he had not seen in some time.

"Bruce," he said, surprised as much by the visit as he was by the growth that had happened in the time he had last see the boy. "What can I do for you?"

He was a boy of about fifteen now, and though he still had some growing to do, Jim would have bet dollars to doughnuts that he would clear six feet by the time he was eighteen. He was strong looking for a kid his age, densely build, definitely past middleweight. His features were as sharp as his no-nonsense expression, his eyes focused, his dark clothing and personal appearance well kept and immaculate.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," he said, and only then did Jim notice the file underneath his arm.

"Alright," said Jim, putting his paperwork in order and getting up from his desk.

"Hey rook," he called to a young uni who was eating a doughnut beside the coffee machine. "Just so you know, those are for the whole floor too. If you need me, I'll be Exam Two."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," grumbled the rookie, taking his coffee and heading off somewhere. "I got it, Lou."

"That's lieutenant," called Jim over his shoulder.

The examination room was standard; one-way glass, one table, two to four chairs, and one camera. Jim left it running, just in case he might need the footage for some reason.

"What can I do for you, Bruce," Jim asked as they sat at opposite sides of the table.

"I need you to make thirty-seven arrests," said Bruce, completely serious.

Jim was astounded, "Arrests for what, exactly?"

"Drug trafficking," said Bruce. "Dealing in illegal substances, possession, unlicensed concealed weapons. Maybe more."

He handed over the file. Jim started as he realized he was holding a GPD file, or, at least, as close to one as he had ever seen that wasn't handed to him by a cop. The paperwork was replicated, but as close to official as it got. Aside from there being no case number, he could have handed this to the commissioner himself and, unless he looked closely, he would have no way of knowing it wasn't from within their system.

The contents of the file were thorough and as contiguous as he had ever seen an investigation be. It traced the drug supply routes from Kane Academy to local organized crime. Even Jim recognized some of these names. It was better work than most of the detectives he knew could do. It was also completely inadmissible in court.

"Bruce," Jim said, and immediately Bruce's expression became flat and unreadable. "I am really impressed by the work you've done here, but I can't use this."

"Why not?" asked Bruce, his manner firm, but just a hint of disappointment creeping into his voice.

"Because you're not a police officer," said Jim in what he hoped was a soothing tone. "This is some exceptional work, even by our standards. When you're old enough, I will do everything I can to get you a job here if that is something you want. But even if half of this was admissible, we have no evidence that most of these suspects have committed any crime."

"But they are breaking the law," Bruce said, sounding as though he was struggling not to sound petulant.

Jim shook his head sadly, "It isn't enough. Arresting someone for breaking the law isn't enough without the ability to prosecute them for breaking a law."

Bruce's brow furrowed, "Meaning the system can't deal with someone until after a crime is committed? That's stupid. It's backward."

Jim smiled awkwardly, "That's that way it is."

"Even if one hundred percent of crimes resulted in arrests," said Bruce, his voice getting louder, "that's not good enough."

Jim didn't know what to say. He had no way of placating the youth, "It's the best we have."

Bruce was suddenly on his feet, "It's not the best if you're already dead!"

Jim said nothing, just stared at him. Bruce's anger melted away, and the boy seemed to collapse into himself.

"I've got nothing," he said, his voice brittle. "Every single day is an open wound I can't escape, that never heals. Their ghosts hang over me everywhere I go, and I can't escape them. Anger runs in my veins, and I can't quench the burn of it. This isn't a life anymore; it's a death march."

Jim put a hand on his shoulder, "Son, I can't tell you it will get any better, because, honestly, I don't know. It might and it might not. But there is such a thing as having a life without betraying their memory."

"I can't," said Bruce. "I can't just live my life and pretend that what happened wasn't an atrocity and try and do something about it."

He walked out without another word, and Jim didn't try and stop him. After a long, considering moment, he walked to the camera terminal and discarded the data.

Late that night Pennyworth was roused from a deep sleep by his phone.

"Wayne Manor," he said as was his answer, even on his personal line.

"Alfred," croaked the voice on the other end. "Alfred."

Pennyworth was instantly completely awake, "Where are you, Sir?"

"Door," he burbled.

Pennyworth was at the front door in a trice, his phone pocketed as soon as he saw that he didn't need it anymore. Thomas Wayne's black Lexus was haphazardly angled to the house, the driver's door ajar. A dozen feet from the vehicle, the Master lay in a splatter of his own blood where he had fallen. It took only moments for Pennyworth to find and identify the bullet wound.

Hitting speed dial on his phone, he found the exit wound and realized it was a through and through.

"Hello," said a firm, matronly voice on the other end of the line.

"It's Master Wayne," said Pennyworth. There was a moment of stunned silence.

"Master Bruce," he reiterated. "Gunshot."

"Where?" she asked.

"Left abdomen," said Pennyworth. "There is an exit wound. It is shallow and far from center. It doesn't look like it pierced the gut, though I could be mistaken."

"Put pressure on the wound," she said. "I will be there directly. He is AB positive, correct?"

"Yes, Doctor," he said.

The silver Sedan pulled up twenty-one minutes later. By that time, Bruce was in the nearest bed to the front door, one of the servant's rooms, which was only feet closer to the door than Pennyworth's. His shirt was removed and used to put pressure on the wound. Bruce was only vaguely conscious.

"Thank you for coming, Dr. Thompkins," said Pennyworth.

"Please, Leslie," she said, her tone pleasant and casual as she bustled about, hanging a bag of saline and a unit of blood, administering the IV with all the efficiency of a military field medic. After giving him a shot for the pain through the IV, she put on gloves, just long enough to pull out gauze, sutures, needle, and forceps and place them on a tray beside the bed. Discarding the gloves, she scrubbed in at a small sink in the servant's room, reapplied new gloves, sterilized her equipment, and set to work as she talked Pennyworth through washing his hands and putting on gloves before having him assist. Twenty-seven stitches later, most of which were in muscle tissue, she gave Bruce another shot for pain, helped Pennyworth clean him up and transfer him to a clean bed. As they were cleaning up, her consolidating her equipment and him gathering the soiled bedding to be burned, she asked Pennyworth, "Were you planning on explaining this time?"

She hadn't asked when it had been a minor knife wound eight weeks earlier. She figured that billionaire children got into scrapes, and it was common practice not to risk media cover. But this felt secretive, dangerous, and she cared too much for Thomas's memory not to be concerned for his son.

Pennyworth was obviously pensive, but he was obliged to her and they both knew it.

"I am not sure," he said. "I don't know what he does or where he goes, but that will change. I was able to convince myself that the stabbing was an isolated incident and I needn't worry, but I cannot delude myself anymore without endangering him. I think it might have something to do with Martha and Thomas, but I can't be sure."

Leslie came up short, "What does getting shot have to do with their deaths? I mean, besides the obvious."

"I do not believe he is suicidal," said Pennyworth. "I think he is trying to stop it."

"Stop what?" she asked.

"Crime," he said. "It seems to be his obsession; what causes it, how to track it, identify it, how to anticipate it, how to prevent it, the psychology behind it, everything."

"You think he is going out at night and trying to, what? Fight criminals?" asked Leslie.

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Pennyworth. "I thought the grounds' security system would be enough to keep an eye on him. I know now that I was wrong. I don't know what made me think he would be so easily defeated."

"Him," chuckled Leslie, ruefully. "Young people have a way of being both obliviously childish and unforeseeably cleaver. So, what are you going to do, oh wise guardian of a minor vigilante?"

Pennyworth raised his eyebrows, "Honestly? I haven't the faintest. Any suggestions?"

Leslie smiled as she buttoned up her kit, "Children are a rare commodity, but they are ultimately just people and should be treated as such. And, no matter how much we try to make it or want it to be otherwise, people will always do what they think is right and best. All you can do is show them the healthiest way to figure out what that is."

Pennyworth gave his thanks once again and escorted her out, and she handed over a third unit of blood and told him how to administer it. He considered moving the Lexus until he saw the interior and considered that it should be cleaned before being driven. He went to Master Wayne's bed and changed out the empty unit for the full one. Then, drawing up a chair, he waited, lost in thoughts and considerations.

It was mid-morning by the time Bruce finally roused from sleep, managing to do so without moving his injured side. He found the prescription pill bottle by the bed and after a quick read, swallowed the pill dry, hardly sitting up, ignoring the water bottle with a built-in straw. His attention went to Pennyworth, and it was many minutes before he spoke, "Did you call the police?"

"No," said Pennyworth, his eyes still out the window.

After another lengthy pause, Pennyworth asked, "Is there anything I can say to you that will stop you from ever going out like this again?"

"No," said Bruce, barely considering, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Pennyworth finally replied, "If this is the path that you have chosen, I know I can't, and therefore won't, try to stop you. But, I won't have you risking your life like this, unprepared and vulnerable."

Bruce began to protest, but Pennyworth's eyes flashed and his hand went up and Bruce fell silent.

"So," he continued, "I want your word that you will not go back out until you are at least twenty one years of age. In that time, if you agree to it, I will do everything in my power to have you trained. I know your mind is good, and your body is strong and you know how to throw a punch, and take one, but you need more training, more knowledge than the average civilian. I can have that imparted to you, but I won't, not until you agree."

Bruce closed his eyes in a long blink, "Alright, Alfred. Alright. I agree."

After preparing his usual blended protein shake for The Master's breakfast, Alfred returned to his quarters. After several deep breaths and a long pause, he turned to his footlocker. He had refused to touch his Sig Sauer P226 and his Remington 870 other than to clean them since Thomas and Martha. He knew that he had chosen a path that he might have to use them again. Fishing past a few odds and ends, he found what he was looking for right where he expected it. Opened his little black book, he picked up the manor's landline and dialed. He spoke his personnel number and a series of code phrases. The transfer went through.

"Directive?" asked a voice on the line.

"Specialized training," said Pennyworth.

"Category?" asked the voice.

"All," said Pennyworth.

"Time frame?" asked the voice.

"Six years," said Pennyworth.

The fax machine sprang to life. He said he ending codewords and hung up. He read the paper, tabulating, calculating the time to heal, taking the tests to end his schooling, travel times, adjusting for his intelligence and his stubbornness. He might just be able to do it.


	7. 7 - Initiation

The location of the temple was not on any maps available to the general public. Deep in the mountains of Japan, information about it was extremely limited, and while most of the locals knew of its existence, they were more talkative about dishonorable family secrets than they were about the fortress of bamboo and jade. They never asked questions about it once they were old enough to know they shouldn't, averted their eyes from it, and avoided the grounds around it whenever possible.

Bruce knew his Japanese was accented, but it was fluid and his comprehension was even better. He had read as many cultural studies as he could, yet he still felt woefully unprepared for this venture.

To his surprise, upon arriving at the temple, he found that he was not the only one preparing for the initiation ceremony. A male and a female were preparing to request entry into the temple, though it was obvious they weren't associated. The female was about five foot seven, just under a hundred and forty, Russian, maybe Ukrainian. The male was six foot seven and weighed upwards of two sixty. Bruce didn't know enough about tribal scarification to identify a specific country, but he was likely at least native to Africa.

Bruce took his place third in line and waited. Thirteen and a half minutes later, there was the sound of a gong, and the gates to the temple opened. Two dozen men, all wearing traditional gray kimono, marched out at a brisk pace, falling into a wide circular formation in the open space before the gates with an efficient discipline that most military personnel could train their entire lives for and don't achieve. Finally, the Master, in a white kimono, came forth, two escorts in tow, each with a single aged katana on their hip. He sat at the head of the circle, closest to the temple. With a wave of his hand, all the others sat.

"First candidate," said the Master's escort, as though he was the Master's mouthpiece. "Come forward. Express your value."

The male came into the circle. Taking a long moment, he indicated two of the sitting men and gestured them forward. Once their master had nodded, they stood and entered the circle, two others from the temple running forward, taking their place in the circle after acknowledgment from and to their master. The two took the time to warm up and stretch, throwing punches and kicks, jumping in the air, their movements sure and the snap of their corded muscles audible. The male stretched his back, neck, and shoulders, then struck a fighting stance, his dense muscles pulling tight, his blood vessels straining against his skin.

"Begin," cried the escort. The two, who didn't seem at all ready, sprung into action. Their attacks were direct and focus, not interfering with the others', and almost instantly overwhelming the big male. After a few beats, he recovered, anger working itself into his form. He began flowing around them, his motions smooth from someone so large, using a contiguous, calculated retreat to constantly place one between himself and the other. Whenever he had no choice but to face them both, he countered with one hand while attack with the other, dancing in and out of their attack's range.

Finally, he closed with one of his combatants, managing to do so while he was between the male and the other attacker. Bruce saw the way he held the other's arm, saw the male step to the outside, and knew what was coming. He suddenly felt an arm slam against his chest, realizing that it belonged to the female, and that he had taken several steps forward and that she had just stopped him from interfering.

With a harsh blow, the male horrible broke the first combatant's arm, his elbow reversed, bones protruding. The master never blinked, and after the initial cry, the fighter with the broken arm made no sound. He relocated his elbow with a look of intense pain, bones still displaced, but not nearly so much. He pulled off his kimono sleeve, ripping it at the shoulder seam, binding the wound as the fight continued.

The second fighter seemed to have redoubled his efforts, and Bruce realized that he had not been fighting at full strength before. He watched, seeing how the fighter shifted his weight, tilting his body behind every punch, slamming into the male over and over. Then, as though answering an unheard question, the master nodded and the fight ended.

Bruce saw it coming, seeing the fighter faint after a strong punch from the male, as though the blow had stunned him. As the male drove in, eager to push the advantage, the fighter pushed past him, just past and then inside his guard. Placing his step forward behind and between the males legs, he stood up, his hip meeting the male's, his hand finding the male's shoulders. The press of his hand, the shift of his hip, the placement of the foot all added up to enough force to shift the big male of his center of gravity.

He stumbled and fell, hard, landing badly. Before he could recover, the fighter slammed his elbow down, his strikes supplemented with his entire body weight, slamming the male in the diaphragm, the face, and the groan. The fighter than grabbed the male by the hand, twisting his arm around, forcing him onto his stomach with the pain of straining tendons and ligaments. He held the arm locked, the male trapped, his apathetic eyes on his master. The master nodded, and Bruce watched in fascination as the fighter broke the male's arm. Though the fracture was not compound, from the angle and shape of the limb, to say nothing of the male's screams of anguish, it was evident to Bruce that the injury was just as severe, if not more so. The fighter bowed to his master, and after a wave, returned to his place in the circle, the displaced man returning to the temple.

After the big male managed to extract himself from the temple grounds, the master turned his attention to the fighter with his broken arm, and this time, the master spoke, calling the fighter by name.

"Have you learned from your mistake?" asked the master. The fighter bowed and gave a respectful verbal affirmative.

"You may see to your injury," continued the escort, and the fighter stood and walked back into the temple with the same gate he used upon exiting, keeping his arm from jostling.

"Second candidate," said the escort.

The female came forward, coming to stand in the center of the circle in formal, ready position and waiting for consent to continue.

"Begin," said the escort.

She sprang into action, beginning a kata heavy with Japanese overtones. Her strikes were direct, her kicks straight on, her stances forward facing, all her turns on a variant of ninety degrees. But slowly, over time, the style she used began to evolve. It changed, becoming more practical. Her stances went from rigid dogma to dynamic practicality, her weight light and shifting from foot to foot. She faced somewhere between the front and the forty-five, still very direct, but with the ability to fall back defensively more easily. Her attacks and blocks were snaps, quick and with a minimum of effort.

He style kept evolving, almost completely out of Japanese, into the liquid and flowing style of Chinese martial arts. Bruce couldn't help but notice the style she used now showed off her ability to bend, her flexibility. The way she dipped into low stances and jumped left no need to imagine just how supple her frame was, how soft her fresh was. Bruce was aware that his staring was not wholly academic, but he couldn't seem to care.

Upon completing some particularly acrobatic maneuvers, she struck a pose that was more akin to a dancer's than a martial artist's. She continued the pose, breathing heavily, waiting. No one moved. No one spoke. She finally broke her stance, looking around, though an almost smug confidence filled her face. Slowly, met with more silence and stillness, her expression began to slip, replaced with defiant anger. With a string of swearing, she turned and stomped her way out of the circle, nearly tripping as one of its number didn't move and proved mostly immovable. She just managed to remain upright, and, bright red in embarrassment and fiery, she left without another backward glance.

"Third candidate," said the escort. Bruce took a long moment, considering. His eyes fell upon the master, and he made up his mind. Entering the circle, Bruce turned smoothly, and, without fear, walked directly towards the master. The two escorts came half up, one knee and one foot on the ground, each pulling their katana just enough so that an inch of gleaming steel could be seen. This didn't deter Bruce or affect his gate in any way. He came and sat, only about three feet away from the master, in the traditional kneel, stared the master in the face, and refused to blink.

They sat as such for hours, Bruce never relaxing, nor did the master, nor did the escorts, still prepared to strike. Upon blinking, Bruce still continued but blinked only when he felt he had no choice, which was infrequently. Dusk came and went, and a series of long torches were carried out from the temple and set all around the edge of the circle, in even intervals. One by one, they burnt out, the last just before dawn.

Bruce was undoubtedly exhausted, his muscles strained, his stomach tight with hunger. In the darkness between the last torch going out and the first light of the new day, Bruce found that the members of the circle had vanished, the torches had been removed, and the escorts had returned to kneel beside the master. All had been done silently.

A few more hours, and Bruce was prepared to collapse. He had been mentally prepared for the night, but he thought that dawn would mean his victory. But he understood the female's folly and would not begrudge defeat, even if that is what this was. Finally, they reached the end of the first day, the first full twenty-four hours. Without a word or any indication that Bruce could see, the two escorts left, but not before being replaced by a young girl, a year or so younger than Bruce, who stood watch with a naked naginata when she was not practicing one of her many forms every half hour. By nightfall, she came and sat beside them, her weapon across her knees, still ready.

Bruce started to feel frantic, a sort of bubbly feeling welling up inside him. He was feeling rather delirious from lack of food and sleep, his muscles screaming for release and to be stretched. He couldn't imagine what his eyes would have felt like if he hadn't long given up refusing to blink. He didn't know how much longer he could stand, how much more of this he could take.

That night seemed impossibly long. Bruce kept trying to predict the first light of dawn, and most of his expectations fell short of the halfway mark. He hadn't gone so long without speaking since his parents' deaths and that notion frightened him in his sleep-deprived state. I began to feel gunmen in the night around him, and the only way to make them vanish was to turn a look and verify their nonexistence, which he could not do. He began to lose time, though the seconds he was aware of stretched like hours. Finally, in the minutes before dawn, the two torches that had been rotated out as they died finally burned out and were not replaced by runners from the temple. Upon first light, Bruce found that he sat alone.

The day was nearly the worst Bruce had ever endured. He was filled with nearly constant questions and doubt. Had he failed? Why? What could he have done differently? Why wasn't he good enough? What did this mean for his training? How could go on if he couldn't even get this right? How could he ever redeem himself for the death of his parents if he was this inadequate?

It was a severe struggle for Bruce. He was starting to bob, starting to nod off. He could feel the justifications start to creep into him, telling him he was done, that he didn't need to still be doing this, that it was pointless, just like his purpose, just like his life, just like him. He decided that if they had not made any indication whether or not he had succeeded by nightfall, he would leave. But just as dusk was starting to stretch across the sky, and he felt as though he had absolutely nothing left, he realized he still had one last thing; choice. He could have walked away at daybreak, but he chose not to. He could have left that minute, but he chose not to. And he could choose to leave upon the coming of darkness. But he would choose not to. He would not give that choice away, making it another's responsibility whether or not he failed. He sat straighter, he strength renewed, despite his body. His eyes unblinking once again.

Upon night falling and the landscape becoming truly dark, an individual from the temple walked out to Bruce bearing a torch. He raised his hand in negation, and after a backward glance, the torch was returned, taking the light with it. And that night, Bruce found solace in the dark and felt himself become one with the night.

Upon daybreak, Bruce was nearly bowed, almost no longer able to remain upright. He was so delirious that he thought he was going crazy when the light revealed the circle renewed, and the master and his escort returned. He began to become afraid that the last... he couldn't remember how many days, had all been a mental break, and that he had only just begun the trial and he would have to sit as he had all over again. He fought hard, sitting as straight as he could, his body shaking, near nauseous with the stress of it. Finally, at last, after what seemed an eternity, the master spoke, in English, "What is your name?"

As he spoke his reply in Japanese, he managed to keep his voice from cracking, "I am Bruce Wayne, master."

He bowed as he spoke, and was nearly unable to return to sitting.

The master nodded, "You may call me Yoru Sensei. You will not speak to me again unless invited to. You will do as instructed without question. You will not leave the temple without permission. You will be punished as I see fit. You will learn as I see fit. You will live as I see fit."

Bruce bowed again, needing to use his fist to return to upright, "Yes, Yoru Sensei."

The master nodded, "You are dismissed."

Bruce collapsed, literally, and lost time. He was unaware, whether or not it could be called sleep. When he returned to consciousness, he was upon a bed in a room lit by a single candle, an old man and an old woman servicing him, removing his horribly soiled clothes and slowly pouring incredibly weak tea down his throat. They stretched his limbs and massaged his muscles with salves. He slept. They gave him light foods and herbs and burned incense and washed him. He slept. And after three days of rest after his three-day trial, his training began.


	8. 8 - Commencement

Bruce stood in the circle of candles, his eyes closed, his body relaxed despite standing in ready position. His was breathing evenly, barely flickering the flames just out of range around him.

"Begin," said Koru Sensei. Bruce surged, falling into the well-practiced fighting stance. He threw technique after technique, punches, kicks, knife-hands, never leaving the circle's center. After fewer seconds than there were candles, he was once against still, though ready, in the now darkened room.

In the sudden darkness, Bruce reached out with his senses, observing the world without sight. He heard the creak of wood, the rustling of breath, the dampening of resonance in the room as sound met mass. Feeling the shift of air about his skin, he dodged left, the crack of impact where he had been standing not quite covering the footfalls of the attacker. Extrapolating direction, Bruce formed the attackers shape in his mind and struck. The attacker toppled, and Bruce recovered the weapon, a bamboo shinai, as he suspected. Whirling the weapon up to protect against overhead strikes, he carefully sidestepped with as much speed as he could muster while still moving silently.

Suddenly, the room was re-lit, and Bruce only managed to keep from being blinded because his eyes had been closed. He found four attackers still left. He closed with the nearest, dipping his thrusting attack down between her arms holding her own shinai. Bringing the tip back up and around, he controlled her weapon and momentum, able to fling her over his shoulder and disarm her. Taking up her shinai in his off hand, he blocked the oncoming attacks, one with each of his weapons and the last with his foot. He countered the first attack with his opposite weapon, as he switched his feet and planted a kick into the second attacker, now out of range of the third. Using his primary weapon, he leveraged the first attacker's shinai out of his hands before delivering two solid blows. It would have been three, but he was forced to swing widely to keep the other two attackers at bay.

Turning and considering, he slipped his offhand weapon into his belt and pulled up his primary into an offensive stance, high over his head. One attacker met him defensively, low and shinai back, while the other used the more orthodox and balanced stance used by all students of kendo. Bruce knew the expected tactic, to attack the less defensive, having a higher chance for an opening and dispatching her before taking on the last. Which is exactly why he fainted an attack on the defensive attacker, waiting for both surprise and a press from the advantage to overextend the balanced fighter. Dropping low, just under the blow meant for his head, he rolled right and swung his weapon back the way he had come, having enough control to adjust the angle and not land his attack squarely into her kidney. He stepped in and swept her down, having enough time to get up his weapon to be disarmed by a very well placed thrust and a twist.

Not bothering to pull the second shinai, Bruce followed the flow of the attack. He knew by the musculature and way his opponent moved that he had superb upper body strength. Turning his back to the next strike, he flexed, expelling breathe, making his entire body rigid, doing all the techniques he knew for absorbing the shock of an attack. With a bone jarring crack, the attacker's shinai split with the force of the blow, and Bruce came onward. Distracted by his lose of weapon, Bruce was able to use an aikido grab to force his opponent to the ground, forcing him to tap out.

Upon releasing him, he stood returning the focus to Koru Sensei. Bruce watched as the downed fighter, the final fighter, turned and came at him. He did not move, even as the fighter attacked. Koru Sensei gave ascent with his eyes and Bruce spring into action.

Bruce had never had a student lose control while fighting him, as his opponent had, nor had he been in an unorchestrated fight since he had left Gotham. He knew his form was exceptional and his mind sound, but this was the truest test he had faced so far.

"You are a fool," cried his opponent, a man Bruce was familiar with but didn't know his name. "Entitled white child!"

They grappled and danced, fighting with impeccable form and neither making any mistake the other could exploit.

Bruce said nothing, which only seemed to infuriate his opponent more. The man finally grinned maliciously at Bruce, "Orphan. It is obvious why your father is dead. You shamed him, and he could not live in a world with you in it."

Bruce forgot himself. He pushed past his opponent's guard and grabbed him by his front. With all the strength he had and all the know-how he possessed, Bruce flung him bodily out of the fighting circle, through the rice paper, and out into the muddy grounds where the rain poured.

Not bothering with the door, Bruce dove after him, nearly losing his footing on the slick earth.

The fight became brutal, practice forgotten, precision discarded. It became about inflicting and enduring pain. Bruce pounded his fists into his opponent and was slammed upon in return. He said nothing and after Bruce's retribution after the third insult, his opponent said nothing as well.

At length, they found themselves at the central plaza, an area usually reserved for promotions and graduation. Bruce was exhausted, but still, he kept on. With the speed of planned forethought, his opponent ran backward, towards the shrine. In an act of total disgrace, he grabbed one of the two ceremonial katana that were always kept there. Bruce watched in horror as his opponent came at him, not in fear from the blade, but at the indifference, the total lack of respect, the utter selfishness of it. Bruce found himself. He found Koru Sensei in the crowd but found nothing but acceptance in his master's eyes. Bruce's decisions had to be his own. He ran, sliding on his knees in the rain, leaning back under the horizontal slash of his opponent. Taking up the second blade, Bruce charged with purpose, preparing for a battle he knew he must win.

Steel met steel, again and again, the two circling, neither giving an inch. Bruce calculated and realized that the longer this battle went, the more tired he would become and the greater the chance for failure or injury. If he wanted to end this, and do so before he lost his fine motor skills, he would have to take a risk.

On the next overhead strike, he acted. Rather than the traditional horizontal block, Bruce risked life and literal limb, slapping the blow with the side of his blade as he stepped to one side, the blade missing his shoulder by less than an inch. Stepping in, he reversed the maneuver, slapping his opponents face with the flat of his blade, managing only a minor scratch to his face. So surprising was the slap that Bruce was about to disarm him with minimal effort. Catching up the second blade, he kicked one leg out from under him. Once on his knee, Bruce crossed the blades, settling each upon his shoulder, edge pointing to his neck. The fear filled the man's eyes but he did not speak, did not call out. Without looking to his master, Bruce withdrew the blades, elbowing the man in the side of the head, knocking him out cold.

As soon as he was down, Bruce dropped to his knees, holding out the two blades in the traditional way, edges towards himself, hard to manage with two katana. The smiths came forward immediately, taking the blades from him with reverence. He stayed where he was, noting that what he had thought was a disheveled throng of onlookers was, in fact, a ceremonial assemblage. He didn't let the surprise show in his face as Koru Sensei sat before the shrine and the opponent was carried out.

"Today," said Koru Sensei. "We honor one of our own. Few are his years and short has been his training. Yet few have I seen with his dedication, his honor, and his courage. Come forward, Student Wayne."

Bruce came to the respectful distance and sat, not sure what to feel.

"By tradition," said Koru Sensei, "students have learnt at our temple no less than five years. Student Wayne has completed his training at less than four."

"Honor!" cried all the students as one.

"As recognition," continued Koru Sensei, "we gift you these."

The two smiths can forward, each carrying one katana, which Bruce recognized as the blades he had just fought with. He was still as they synched the weapons into his belt.

"Wear them with honor," said Koru Sensei.

"Honor!" cried the students once again, and the collection of students was dissolved.

Bruce sat for a long while, contemplating. He knew what he had accomplished was exceptional, but he couldn't accept that he deserved it.

"Student."

Bruce looked up to see Koru Sensei standing over.

Bruce bowed, "Sensei."

"Stand," he replied. "Walk with me."

Bruce stood and marched with Koru Sensei to the overlook, a section of the temple at the edge of the mountain, a scenic view of the valley below.

"Do you know how we choose those who enter here?" asked Koru, in English.

"No, Sensei," said Bruce, still in Japanese.

"We do not choose," said Koru. "They do."

Bruce thought about his trial, thought about all the candidates he had witnessed, all of those who didn't make it, and realized that not once had Koru ever refused to teach anyone. They had given up.

"All students need only two things," said Koru. "To be capable of failure, to know that they can be wrong and lose no self-worth. And they need the dedication to keep trying despite failure. I have never met any student with that ability more than you, Student Wayne."

Wayne scanned the valley, thinking, then asked, "How am I wrong?"

Koru almost smiled, "You are a wise man."

"Not yet, Koru Sensei."

Koru did smile, "The easiest lies to believe are the lies we have spent our lives convincing ourselves are true. Even if I told you what they are, it would not help you to change them."

Bruce considered, "It would give me the opportunity to know that I could, Koru Sensei."

Koru considered, "What do you believe is a lie that you are telling yourself?"

Bruce shook his head, "That I am not good enough. My dedication exists because of something that happened to me that I couldn't control, so I'm not worthy of it. That what I want isn't really justice, it's revenge. That if I ever find the scum that murdered my parents, I won't be good enough not to kill him."

Koru nodded, "Very insightful, Student Wayne."

Bruce fidgeted, "Am I right, Koru Sensei?"

Koru took seven breaths before speaking, "Right and wrong are concepts that are ultimately meaningless. There is no such thing as a right answer. When making a choice, the only considerations we have is our experiences, which will only be what they are, despite whether the choice will be more gratifying, more meaningful, more peaceful. I cannot give you the answers. Pointing out the lie does not allow you to stop believing it. Only you can do that, when you are ready. But, I will say this."

Koru turned to face Bruce, his eyes upon the katana at his waist.

"Your greatest weakness is your anger. Even if you end all crime in the world, your parents will not be less gone. And, no matter what anyone says or does, they cannot worsen the pain of their passing. Only you can do that. The greatest lesson you have yet to learn; you must understand your anger. Not dominate it, not control it; understand it. You have a good heart, Student Wayne. I knew that the moment you were willing to risk entering this temple to prevent the injury of one of its students without a thought. That is why you came back to yourself in your fight today. That is why I knew your opponent would survive. And, that is why you carry two katana, one first wielded by you and the other by your enemy. Remember mercy and not to lose yourself. And also, do not forget to write."

Before Bruce could process the words, Koru hugged him. Stunned, Bruce hugged him back. As he stepped away, Bruce found a student carrying a satchel with his belongings.

"You will be missed, Student Wayne," said Koru Sensei, "but your training is finished here and now, you must journey elsewhere. You may return, one day, and you will always be welcome here, my friend."

Bruce was still stunned as he walked through the grounds, many students observed him, and those that were not training bowed respectfully at his passing, extended honors to him. Upon exiting the temple, he found Pennyworth waiting with a car.

"Greetings, Master Bruce," he said. "Anything I can get for you before your flight, sir? We have forty-seven minutes to spare, sir."

"Western clothing?" asked Bruce, momentarily forgetting himself and asking in Japanese. Pennyworth didn't miss a bear.

"In the dry cleaning bag hanging in the car, sir," he said.

Bruce opened the trunk, finding a modern carrying case for his katana. Placing them respectfully inside, he closed the case, deposited his satchel, and was in the back of the car already changing before Pennyworth had them on the road.

"Okay, Alfred," Bruce said. "What's next?"


	9. 9 - The Double Cross

Mario sat at his desk in the office, upstairs of The Restaurant. He was looking over paperwork for their legitimate holdings and making sure the laundering operations passed inspections. He knew that they would be having a major uptick in business with the winter months coming up, and everything would need to be tight.

"Boss," came a voice outside his door, preceding a quiet knock.

"Yes," he said, needing a break.

Lou walked in, "Can I talk to you?"

"What am I?" asked Mario. "A woman?"

"No disrespect, Boss," Lou said, looking nervous for some reason. "It's just... This is sort of... Uncomfortable."

"What are you?" asked Mario. "A woman?"

Lou snorted, "It's about J."

Mario was very still, his eyes passing over the phone. He finally looked up at Lou, "Tell me."

Lou came in and sat down, holding his hat, fidgeting and averting his eyes, "It isn't good, Boss. The other guys are getting anxious. No one wants to work with him. He is creepy at best, and frightening at worst. He cut Frank last week. J laughed at something he said and just cut him across the back of his hand, easy as lying. And that's nothing compared to what happened at Wesker's."

"I'm not a good damned teenage girl," said Mario. "Cut the crap drama."

Lou shuttered, "They hadn't paid out for protection this month. Dave was out of town and Kelly was in the hospital, a gallbladder thing. The kid running the place was new, had no idea how things are. J accused him of playing dumb and demanded he pay up. When the kid refused, he burned him. Some kind of acid or something. Kid's gonna need reconstruction surgery."

Mario took a deep breath. He knew that this day was coming. He knew it the day he hired J. He wasn't a loose cannon; he was a straight up psycho. And psychos all have a shelf life. He had been really useful, but soon, he was going to be more harm than good. Mario just hoped he would be able to handle the situation before J killed someone in the business that didn't need killing.

"Thank you for letting me know," said Mario. "I have the situation in mind and already have preparations to handle it. Just keep me informed. Any little thing, you tell me, you hear?"

"Sure thing, Boss," said Lou, looking mollified.

Before he could take two steps out of his chair, the office door banged open and Alberto stomped into the room.

"What did I say about barging into my office?" said Mario, his voice less than calm.

"I don't know," said Alberto. "Anything that comes out of your mouth that doesn't begin with some variation of 'Papa said' and I stop listening."

Lou left the room directly, respectfully closing the door behind him.

"I don't like your attitude," said Mario.

Alberto looked sarcastically distressed, "Oh no. Whatever will I do?"

"Cut the crap, Berto," said Mario. "What do you want?"

"Hey," said Alberto, less sarcastic but still feigning. "Is that any way to talk to your big brother?"

"That's the way I talk to you," said Mario. "You don't like it? Get out."

"That," Alberto said. "That right there is our problem. You look down your nose at me every chance you get. To you, I'm not worth spit. You think you're better than me."

Mario took off his glasses, carefully setting them down on his desk, "I am better than you, Berto. You think you're untouchable, just because you don't want to be and you haven't been yet. You make stupid decisions based on poor logic, and if it wasn't for The Roman, you'd be dead by now."

"Papa is just overprotective," said Alberto. "Who can blame him? I am his firstborn."

Mario shook his head, "You aren't even listening. If Papa wasn't The Roman, you would be dead. Not maybe. Dead. You aren't first in line anymore. When The Roman's gone, I'm going to be the one to take over. If it was up to me, I would have let you swing a long time ago."

"You can't mean that, Mario," said Alberto. "I'm your brother."

"What you did, you did to yourself," said Mario. "No one made you do it. You've got no one to blame but yourself."

Alberto leaned forward on the desk, planting his knuckles against the wood surface, "I need copies of the Franklin building paperwork."

Mario glared at his brother. He turned and took the file from the cabinet. Not about to let his Alberto mess up his file, he took the paperwork to the copier down the hall himself. Two minutes later, it was done and he was back.

Alberto smiled, but there was something predatory about the smile.

"Just remember," said Alberto, "what you did, you did to yourself. No one made you do it. You've got no one to blame but yourself."

Mario was confused. While he was searching for a retort, Alberto smiled again and left.

J was lying on his bed, deconstructing the garish so-called artistry of Monet. It was hardly evocative at all. Art, real art, required substance, something so visceral that only the mentally deranged or truly deficient had no reaction to it.

His phone dinged, and he picked it up. It wasn't a number he recognized, which instantly peaked his interest. Unusual things so rarely happened. He answered yet said nothing.

"There is a crew on its way up to your place," said a voice. "You have less than five-"

J was already halfway into his best suit. He had two vials on him, his usual blades, his lucky deck, and, for good measure, the hand-cannon revolver he picked up earlier that week. Self-congratulations were in order for his impeccable timing.

Once he was finished dressing and armed, he carefully opened his door and closed it behind him. Stepping into the shadow of his landlord's doorway across the hall, he stood, waiting to see if it was a prank call. He almost wished it was. It would be a grand old time finding so jovial a soul and showing his appreciation. But, alas, it wasn't.

The team was three strong. One was carrying a duffel, either weapons or cleaning supplies. One was the muscle, huge and at least two silence pistols on him, a garrote in hand, and the last was Mike.

Mike looked to the other two men, all moving with the ease of professionals who have spent time together in their mutual trade, the sort of trust that comes from shared trials. Duffel Man checked the door quickly, finding it locked and picking it without any fuss or wasted effort. They slipped inside the dark apartment, Muscles going first while Mikey covered the door. Mikey had just enough time to freeze as the flat of a blade was suddenly pressed to his lips and see Duffel Man, realizing the apartment was clear, try for more light and pull the cord on the overhead light.

The flash of blue flame from the exploding bulb caught the first two men across their top halves. They were suddenly awash in flames that could not be quenched, even by Muscles who had enough brains left to make it to the shower. They burned where they fell, the chemicals expended before the floor was more than badly blackened.

Mike watched in horror almost grateful he had not been part of the conflagration, but knowing that his fate could be far worse and not nearly so quick.

Mike was in a daze as he realized they were suddenly on the roof. He lost himself for a moment, fighting animalistically before he saw the gleam of steel reflecting city lights back at him.

"Mikey, Mikey, Mikey," tsked J. "I know you're just dying to tell me who orchestrated this little escapade, but I am far more interested in the individual who was kind enough to turn this whole thing on its ear by tipping me off."

Mike was suddenly so angry, his fear was nowhere to be found, "I've been set up."

"Come, come now," J chuckled. "You can sing sweeter than that. Perhaps you need a little encouragement."

J twisted weirdly, dropping to a knee, and before Mike could follow what was going on, he felt the blade sink to the hilt in his meaty calf. Before Mike could scream, a hand slammed over his mouth, slamming him to the ground, his cries and whimpers cut short as a second blade found its way in his field of vision, the first still where it had been stuck.

"I was set up!" he cried as soon as he was allowed to speak, though no loudly. "I was told about your job in confidence. The guys with me were outside contractors. I got word to do the job and came here to do it. The leak couldn't have been from me. It wasn't personal, man. It was just a job! Please, please don't kill me!"

J grinned so wide, sitting atop his stomach, that Mike started to visibly tremble, "Mikey, Mikey. Who said I was going to kill you?"

He put the tip of his blade to the indent above Mike's right eye, and even so gently pressed, starting to peel back the eyelid with the point's pressure as the blood began to run.

"What do you want?!" Mike all but screeched, unable to blink.

"Now that's a much nicer tune," said J delightedly, before his look became manic, murderously jubilant and as thrilled as it was thrilling. "Who did it? Who called in my hit?"

Mike's other eye matched the injured one, pulled unnaturally wide, "You know I can't tell you that!"

J looked deeper into his face, seeing the fear, but it wasn't the fear of what Mario would do to him for double-dealing and doing jobs on the side; it was the fear for himself, fear of the pain that honor obligated him to endure.

J laughed, and he laughed and laughed, so high and piercing that Mike went white, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. J liked the effect, the way the white made everything pop, emphasizing features, especially the eyes. It made Mike look less human, something other, like a caricature, the truth behind who he was laid bare in his expression, revealing what he really was; afraid, powerless, mundane, all but dead. J was none of those things. He wanted to paint his face, be pale white, so it could reveal who he was, his true self. He wanted to show the world that even white-faced, he had the power to turn men into what Mike was now. Nothing.

His laughing subsiding, J reached into his coat pocket, withdrawing his lucky deck, "Say, how would you like to play a game?"

"What?" Mike snapped, terrified to the point of losing grip on the world around him.

"Aw," said J, eying him. "You are having a rough time, aren't you Champ? But, I'm not an unreasonable fellow! We'll keep it simple. High card. Best two out of three? I'll deal."

Using Mike's tie, he cleaned his blade before it promptly disappeared on his person. He shuffled the deck with fluid, practiced motions, "And I promise, I won't even load the deck. But no peaking! I can't abide a cheater."

The bulk of the deck disappeared up his sleeve, leave a card in each hand. He slammed his hands down on Mike's chest.

"Can't you just feel that?" J said, his eyes closed, his face suddenly flush with ecstasy. "The thrill of Schrodinger rolling in his grave, that edge, that line that we will cross, that line that makes the world black and white, right and wrong, life and death, the line where the lie of control over our lives dissolves, leaving us only with the truth? And what is that truth, Mikey?"

Mike went almost green, shock setting in from his injuries, "We don't control our lives."

J frowned, "Well, duh! I just said that, didn't I? You're going to have to do better than that, Mikey."

Mike swallowed, "We can die at any time."

J smiled, "Yes. You can."

He flipped the cards, one held closer to himself. J had the six of clubs, Mike the ten of diamonds. He almost cried with relief.

"Very good, Mikey," said J, patting his cheek, only a little roughly. "You're off to a great start."

"Start?" gasped Mike. "But-"

"Two out of three," corrected J. "Two out of three."

He took up the deck again, shuffled as before, disappearing the deck as he slammed down two more cards.

"Oh, yes," said J, evocatively. "You can feel it coming, can't you? The turn, the moment when the future arrives, the knowledge, the clarity, the certainty. The epitome of divinity."

He flipped the cards again, reversing which hand was closer. Mike had the three of diamonds, J the jack of spades. J smiled, "Ooh. Tough luck that."

"You switched-" Mike began to protest, but J sprang back and to one side, next to the leg that still bore the first blade. With a flash, the second blade sang, slicing threw sock and Achilles' tendon. He watched in rapture as time seemed to slow with his rush, the sheer adrenaline. He watched as the blade shifted a little but mostly stayed in place, held by the skin. Muscle bunched towards the back of the knee, and as it pulled in that direction, it pulled itself across both sides of the blade, parting itself in two as the blade was held fast and the muscle moved. As the muscle settled at the back of the knee, the blade was so loose in the gaping wound that it practically dribbled out with the flowing blood.

Mike screamed and writhed as J passionlessly used his tie to clean both blades this time, then used the strip of fabric to tie off the wound.

"Such a trooper," said J. "Stay with me, Mikey. We are almost done."

He shuffled as Mike wheezed and shuttered. Not bothering to use Mike's chest, he flipped his own card first.

"King of spades," tsked J. "Don't like your chances. And you get..."

He flipped up the card dramatically, "...the Joker."

He stared at the white-faced icon, grinning up at him, and then everything fell into place.

Mike began to ball, "I win. That means I win, right? Right? I win, right?"

He smiled, looking down at him, "Weren't you paying attention? You get... The Joker."

Mike looked confused, "J..."

He grabbed Mike by the shoulders, dragging him across the roof, "I said pay attention! Now, who am I?"

Mike's eyes went wide, his eyes going from the card to the edge of the roof to his face, "J- J- Joker. The Joker!"

Joker smiled, "And, don't you forget it!"

He laughed as he let Mike go. Unable support his weight on one leg as he was angled, he toppled off the roof, laughter following him all the way down to the pavement below.


	10. 10 - The Facility

The Commander sat at her usual place in the mess hall, eating slowly, not really focused on her meal. She glanced at her chronometer again; just under eighteen minutes.

"It's not going to happen," said Smith, sitting across from her.

Jones chuckled, "He's succeeded at every solo Game he has tried his hand at so far."

"I don't care what he's done," said Smith. "The Kid is a decade younger than most trainees. I want to know who he is!"

The Commander rolled her eyes, "Smith, I can't tell you, even if I wanted to. His file wasn't even redacted. It was empty. One paper, a request to receive, with a date. He could be from anywhere. He speaks Spanish, French, Russian, English, Arabic, Mandarin, and Japanese, each with a variety of regional accents. He has the highest scores in hand to hand I have ever seen. His understanding of forensic sciences is without precedence. There isn't a melee weapon I have found that he isn't at least proficient with. He picked up repelling and climbing, both urban and terrestrial, with alarming speed. He was giving the drive instructor tips for tuning up the vehicles after his first lesson. He is more skilled than most of the ex-cons that have come through here at picking locks and breaking into rooms. He tested out genius on every mental exam we have given him. The only reason he hasn't graduated yet is because he says he isn't ready to leave yet."

"He has to be some new type of soldier," said Smith. "Generically engineered and given neural stimulants or some such. Raised by scientists and specialists in some secret installation, conditioned in his sleep with subliminal information."

"Oh, shut it, Smith," said Jones. "Next you'll be saying tripe about alien DNA or transgenic cyber implants."

Suddenly, The Commander turned, drawing the others' eyes to what she was looking at. The Kid had entered the mess.

The Commander didn't have her title for nothing, and despite the sheer talent and competency of the group, she could see that more than half the occupants of the mess had their covert gaze locked in on him. And he was aware of it too, she could see. He was doing a masterful job of feigning nonchalance and indifference, but there was something in the grand scheme of it, an element of theatricality, that allowed her to see his tells. From the moment he entered the room, he was playing to the crowd and doing a very good job of it.

She checked again; a bit over eleven minutes.

"He isn't going to do it," said Smith. "He might be homo superior, but he is still just a man. Er, a kid."

"He'll do it," said Jones. "I bet you first pick at the Games tomorrow, three up."

Smith grinned, but not an assured grin, "Deal."

Time stretched, The Commander trying to decipher his expression. She knew he seemed confident, everything about his display and posture said so. And yet, she didn't know how he could do it. It was practically impossible.

Since before she had taken over as Commander at The Facility, there had always been The Safe Op, a covert operations Game for those with the gall to try it. It had evolved over the years, keeping up with new technology, but it was essentially the same game. A computer was monitored by a well thought out system of surveillance, containing encrypted files, and the files must be retrieved before the allotted time is up. In the current incarnation of the Safe Op, the computer was a laptop, with a thirty-six hour battery, a GPS tracker, and an encryption suffocated enough that it would take more than the combined processing power of every computer in the Facility to brute force the files in the thirty-six hour window. The surveillance was set up with a variety of sensors ranging from thermal, motion, and trip lasers, and all of which are set up with redundant generators, each that would sound an alarm if they went down. The setup was ideally secure, to say nothing of the regular guards sweeping the grounds around the building in question every quarter hour.

And, here was the Kid, the first anyone had seen of him since the Safe Op had started. He couldn't have hacked his way in; the laptop's wireless networking card was removed. He could have somehow gotten past security, found the few blind spots there were, gotten to the laptop, unlocked the manual locks covering the thumb drive ports, brought a device the mimicked the scanner that fed the laptop the information on the deep tissue blood vessel scan of the Commander's palm, transferred the file to a thumb drive, and gotten back out again. But the blind spots were undocumented. Even if you made it into the building, finding the blind spots without being sensed would be extremely difficult if not altogether impossible. And, as per regulations, she had not slept in the last thirty-five hours, fifty-one minutes, so there was little chance, even if he knew, that he would have been able to get a scan of her palm. This incarnation of the Safe Op had never been beaten. She doubted it ever would.

And, she was wrong. She had been sure. She had been so sure that when she had come up with the idea, post-coitus with the former Commander of the Facility, her sometimes lover, he had made her a bet and she had agreed. He had graciously allowed her to put back on the black lacy bra and panties set she had been wearing earlier before snapping the photo that she was to use as the Safe Op file. For which she was thankful, because five minutes before the deadline was reached, the projector that was normally used for presentations and Game orientations sprang to life, projecting said picture on the largest blank wall in the mess.

The response was a nearly instantaneous uproar. The Commander was an attractive woman, as she knew. She had been told that she was too attractive for espionage field work, too noticeable, too memorable. She had settled for Black Ops work, and when that career had run its course, she had used her wits and her keen observational skills to land a teaching position at the Facility. And, despite her hard life and because of her constant athletics and healthy eating, aside from the barest hinting of crows feet, she could have passed for a third younger than she was. Despite the fact that every single person at the Facility, a majority of which where men, that had spent any time training with her knew that she had more balls than half the trainees who came through here, they were still men. And that picture was a sight to behold.

Everyone at the Commander's table gaped, half at her and half at the picture. She was in touch with her sexuality enough to give a little dignified smile but returned to business as usual. As soon as the deadline was reached, the projector cut off, to many protestations.

The Kid never moved. He finished his meal without so much as a smirk, but the Commander saw that he was pleased, just a bare hint in his eyes, a slight flush in his cheeks. As soon as he was finished with his meal, he left the mess, ignoring any shoulder slapping or shout-outs to socialize. And the Commander knew an invitation when she saw one.

He was in the barracks, packing a few meager personal belongings. She nodded upon seeing this, knowing what it meant.

"How'd you do it?" she asked, informally and because she knew it was the question he was waiting for.

He said nothing, and she marveled at his total self-control, his intuition as she watched him play her, drawing out the anticipation. Once again, she seriously considered sleeping with him before he left.

"I cheated," he said, his tone caviler. "A little research and a willingness to hack your personal computer will get you a long way. I had already won before the game had started."

He turned his back to her as he leaned over a tablet, checking something. The knife she pulled was matte black, with no gleam to give away its appearance. She felt the old rush come back, wondering how close she dared, if she still had the reflexes to pull the attack in time, if need be. Aiming for his kidney, she drove straight in.

He stepped back, his side coming dangerously close to the knife. His foot landed behind hers, his counterintuitive movement the most direct way to getting behind the knife and her attack, and he didn't care that it left him the most vulnerable. His strong grasp caught the hand holding the knife, pressing between two knuckles that loosened her grip with ease. Sliding his free arm up and around her neck, he caught her in an upward facing headlock. He knocked the knife out of her loosened grip by bringing her hand down hard on the top of his rising knee. He could have easily hurt her if he had wanted to, and yet, as with everything else he did, his control and discipline were awe-inspiring.

She suddenly found herself facing a wall, locked in an armbar. His strength was impressive, considering that had only just begun to acquire some bulk. She couldn't help but moan with the intensity of it. But at the sound of her voice, he immediately released her.

"No," he said, going back to his packing. "You're better than that, Commander."

She turned, practically fuming for more than one reason.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" she asked, trying to get ahold of herself around the pride and indignation.

"The picture was a bad idea," he said. "It's true, it does the trainees around here some good to see you as human, but you don't need to sleep with me to feel better about yourself."

She was practically seeing red. Turning her back on him, she tried, unsuccessfully to keep her voice under control, "I may be the Facility's Commander, but that doesn't make me any less of a person, of a human, a woman. And I have desires I want to be met. Don't you dare try and judge me for that!"

Turning with a head of steam and fully prepared to mow him down, she found the room empty. There was no evidence he had been there and his gear was gone. So total was his presence removed that she spent a moment questioning her senses and sanity. But then, with a smirk, she realized that she had been played again. She decided it was his loss and wondered if she would ever see him again.


	11. 11 - The Turn

Mario was tired, dog tired, and knew that he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes open much longer. He also knew that he still had work to do, and while working at home was risky from an evidence point of view, the alternative was not being home with his family. He wished he could pour himself a drink, but he knew that if he did that, he would be out before he could crawl into bed. He was about to say screw it and finish in the morning when his phone chirped. He picked up.

"Has Mike showed up yet?" he said by way of a greeting.

"No boss," said Lou. "And he isn't going to. We just got word that Mike got good and dead. He went over the side of a building, but we don't have an address yet. They are calling it a homicide."

Mario was suddenly far more awake, "Who is coming in to replace him?"

There was a long pause, "J is supposed to be here in a few minutes. He was the only one of our guys in the area who wasn't chomping at the bit to find out who gibbed Mike."

Mario wasn't sure how to feel about that. Something about it rubbed him the wrong way, but he had more important things to think about.

"Okay," said Mario. "I want this taken care of tonight. Mike wasn't just one of ours, he was one of mine. He was at my hand more than most, second only to you, Lou. I won't have this stand. Whoever did this needs to be shown just how big a mistake he has made."

Suddenly, there was a scuffle on the other end of the line. He heard the unmistakable sound of choking, and what sounded like wheezing, something he couldn't identify. Then he heard a voice whispering something so low, with such an odd sporadic lilt to it, he had trouble making out the words. It sounded as though the voice said, "I liked you best, Lou. So I won't make you watch."

Mario felt his blood run cold because he thought he knew that voice.

"Oh," he heard loudly through the phone, dripping with sarcasm, "Hello, 'Boss'."

Mario felt his stomach turn, "Hey, is that you, J?"

There was an expulsion of poorly suppressed giggles, "It isn't."

It certainly sounded like him, but there was something drastically different about that voice, like it came from an entirely different animal.

"Who is this?" Mario asked, feeling fear slither around in his guts. "What did you do to Lou?"

The giggles were louder now, "You aren't asking the right questions."

Mario sobered, mastered his fear and his anger, "Then let's talk business. You strike me as a man who knows what he wants and how to get it. You've got my attention. What else can I do for you?"

"You can die," said the voice, and there was such glee in those three words that Mario felt fear so deep that he recalled a memory from childhood, back before he knew such fears were childish and unreasonable, back when anything could be real and the world was full of hidden monsters. It was enough for him to believe that monsters could be real again. And then, he heard it, the long loud peeling howls of ringing laughter, both through the phone and outside, on the grounds of his home. It drove ice into his blood and made him still with the notion of not attracting attention. And at that moment, he embraced the idea that he might not live through the night.

Reaching under his desk, he pulled out an assault rifle. Double checking the clip, he switched the safety to full auto. Hanging up, he dialed Tommy, who was no doubt leading the group who was looking for Mike's killer. Straight to voicemail. He tried another, and another with the same result. He got the sinking suspicion he was on his own.

He was about to call the Roman when he heard it. It could have been the word "Hello", but it was so singsong and drawn out it was hard to tell. Antonia and the children would be hearing this, and it was going to go from bad to worse if they got involved.

He rang Antonia but she didn't pick up, and the kids were too young to have phones. Quiet as he could, he moved out of the office and to the kids' rooms. Antonia would be there soon if she wasn't there already. Ernesto and Marzia were in Marzia's room, but looking like their nightmares had come true. The distant sound of quiet yet carrying chuckles was unnerving to Mario, to say the least. He couldn't imagine what his kids were feeling.

"Don't worry," said Mario. "I will take care of this. Everything is going to be-"

There was a sudden silence. The laughter had stopped. Mario thought he heard the rise and fall of far-off voices, too quiet to make out words, but then came the unmistakable scream of Antonia.

The children's eyes were wide and hopeless, their faces doubly stricken as Mario insisted that they hide and call the police, giving them his phone. Taking his rifle, he moved to the foyer, from which the screams were coming.

"Yes!" screamed a voice that was not his Antonia's. "Scream! Cry out for help! Let's see if your dear Mario will come and save you."

Mario rounded the corner of the hall and looked down, finding the larger open area mostly dark, save for moonlight. Antonia was standing out in the open, stalk still, a white-gloved, purple-clad arm snaking from behind her back, holding a knife on her.

"Don't move, Antonia," said Mario. "Don't give him a reason. I've got this."

Antonia shifted, compelled by the knife at her neck to face Mario more full. With the movement, he caught the unmistakable flash of green hair and knew without a doubt who was behind his wife.

"Give it up, J," said Mario. "I know what you did to Mike. And to Lou."

"And Tommy," came the simpering voice. "And everyone else in that black SUV."

Mario froze, "What?"

"I had to say good luck before I came here," he cackled. "They didn't know when I bent to tie my shoe that I left them a present, but when they figured it out, boy, were they surprised!"

The voice dissolved into resounding guffaws. Antonia's face was streaming fearful tears.

"What is wrong with you?" asked Mario, completely outraged.

The knife moved, the tip set to Antonia's cheek. It turned her head to on side allowing her captor to peer around her. What Mario beheld was ghostly, ghastly in the pale light of the waning moon. The face that looked back at him was not only fiend white but was that of an almost ghoulish clown, so exuberant with itself, so monstrously merry. It was a face transformed. It was the face of a demon.

"Wrong?" it asked. "I'm not the one who invited me to this wondrous abode. I'm not the one who set this little ball rolling. I'm just the guy who is here to stab the ball over and over until it figures out good and well to stop rolling!"

After more laughter, Mario asked, "What do you mean? Who invited you where?"

The face changed, the frivolity draining away to leave only the most fierce and awe-inspiring anger, "You tried to kill me, Falcone."

Mario was about to protest when it all clicked.

"Alberto," he said aloud, "you stupid, inconsiderate, worthless child!"

"What is it?" asked Antonia. "What's happening?"

"Berto did this," said Mario. "He came into my office and used my phone while I was making copies for him. What did he do? Tip you off, too?"

The face's expression didn't change, but the smile returned, "So, am I supposed to pretend that I don't know that you orchestrated the hit and that I am too stupid not to have figured it out?"

Mario was pleased that the calm remained on his face, because inside his head he was anything but. He had been wrong; he had underestimated this one. He knew J was a psychopath, but this... This was beyond anything he could have imagined.

"It wasn't personal," said Mario. "You know the benefit of a contingency. If you were to ever-"

"Try to kill you?" asked the clown, the amusement thick as taffy.

"Go too far," Mario managed to get out, knowing that things would go from bad to worse in a hurry and being honest simply for the hope of saving grace. "Look at yourself, J. Look at what you're doing. You're frightful. You hurt people. Is it really so hard to believe that I wanted a surefire way to make sure it wasn't me or anyone I am responsible for?"

For a moment, the mask seemed to crack. A flash of something close to confusion, a shadow of empathy, crossed that face. But then it was gone. Then it was replaced by a look of total and hollowing happiness.

"There is no more J," he said, his tone acidic mirth. "You achieved what you set out to do. He's dead! You may call me The Joker."

The blade flashed, somehow catching the light and obscuring its flight until it was too late. Antonia screamed, spraying blood from her now widened smile, her jaw loose and gaping. Joker stepped back with the movement, still concealed behind Antonia. As she fell to one side, she revealed a revolver, seemingly as big as Mario's weapons, pointed right at him.

By instinct, Mario had begun moving forward, his gun and the danger forgotten with his wife so pained. He had just enough time to see the threat before he was spun by the large caliber shot, his own firearm cartwheeling away, clattering end over end into the darkness. Mario found himself flat on his back, his upper arm burning. And in a moment, The Joker was above him.

"Mikey was an unlucky fellow," said Joker, and Mario could just make out the crisp snapping of shuffling cards. "Not like Lou. I needed information, and the game we played was not something Mikey could have survived. But Lou, I needed nothing from him. If I thought for one second he would have just walked away, I would have let him. I would have killed him later because that would have been hilarious! But I would have let him. He died quick. As for you, Mario, you get the best of both worlds. I need nothing from you, and you are going to die slow. So, the question is, do you want to play a game?"

Mario grimaced, sweating, "Go to hell, clown!"

The Joker snickered his appreciation, "Well put, and mores the pity."

There was a sound like wine cork coming out, a slosh of something, then the crack of gunfire. Antonia had fought through the pain, found the rifle and was firing, the shots wide. Suddenly, Mario felt something splatter against his shirt and collar, smelt the acrid bite of some chemical, before the fire came.

It was unlike anything he had ever felt. Worse than a knife or any tissue damage, any broken bone, worse than any injury he had had previously, dwarfing even the bullet wound he currently had. It burned across his neck and chest, demanding something, anything, everything! His mind felt crushed under the weight of it, the relentless onslaught of sensation, unable to move but trying to do so in every way at once.

Mario lost The Joker. He lost track of his own body, which was slamming around unconsciously, only fragments getting through to him. He recalled the kitchen, though not sure how he got there. He recalled trying to dab himself with towels, them coming away with more bits of flesh than with chemical. He recalled the sound of an explosion and burning and knew no more.

Joker stood at the edge of the property, wishing he had a spit and a bag of wieners as the house burned. He wasn't sure what became of those inside, and he found himself wishing that Mario would live. Life would be far more interesting that way. He watched the flames and found their glow beautiful. He stayed a lot longer than he thought he should have. He did not stay because he wanted to view the aftermath, see the fire department and the police, running around like ants from an overturned mound, trying so meagerly to prevent further damage. He stayed because he didn't have anywhere to go, no direction to move towards. The most interesting thing he had ever done in his life was behind him. Now, he wasn't sure what to do.

But after a moment, he got the joke; that was everyone's life, every day. They all knew what the next step was, what they were supposed to do. Most people would let that rule them, keep them from doing anything other what they had already done with their lives, over and over again. And he, the twisted and bizarre, might just do what most people in the world would not, were too afraid to try; he could be free.


	12. 12 - The Return

Pennyworth double checked the navigational equipment, as he did every evening at dusk. The small yacht he was piloting around the Atlantic was only the most recent cover story for the Master's training. He was used to meeting Master Bruce after every step of his training, but reporters in Gotham were starting to become nosy, questioning whether Bruce Wayne would ever helm the company that was his namesake. Pennyworth knew the Master was coming to the end of his training, and this ploy was the best option for him. Away from prying eyes, he could return whenever he wished, and none would question why such a solitary young man would do a little soul search in the custom of rich young men.

So, it was up to Pennyworth to fabricate the evidence, actually taking the ship around, a ship which could be traced by any reporter who had enough grease and gall to get things moving. It was pleasant enough a task, yet he wished he could be there when his Master returned.

The night was fast approaching, and once he was sure that everything was secured and working properly, he prepared to go below. He was just about to close the hatch when he heard it.

The splash was quiet but too big to be a fish. He knew the sense of taking precautions, so he armed himself before finding cover against the raised platform around the mid-deck, finding the shadow to his liking. He listened and heard neither creak of board nor shift of water that was out of place. He moved around the platform, making it halfway up the ship when he found it. Water, a large puddle of it, was running off the side. There was no way a wave could have gotten this height without a storm, and there was evidence of a trail of water, heading away from him. He was not alone.

He considered throwing caution to the wind; if his assailant was using stealth, that either meant he or she likely couldn't take Pennyworth by main strength. There was nothing of particular value on the boat save the boat itself, and with the assailant's presence known, coming at him or her directly and without caution could likely turn the element of surprise in Pennyworth's favor. But, he deemed the maneuver too risky and was preparing to continue on when the light from below clicked on. He dropped to the deck as quietly as he could. Moving at speed, he made his way back to the aft hatch and went below, easily. On the luxury deck, that was just large enough to stand, was a figure, standing at the bar. He wore white silk pajama bottoms under a black silk robe and was sipping a glass of what looked like scotch. Pennyworth was about to raise his firearm when he turned.

"Master Bruce," said Pennyworth, utterly confused. He suddenly wondered if he had somehow been mistaken and if the Master had been aboard this whole time. Then, the reality of the situation settled in, and Pennyworth looked over the young man, who had been a boy when last they had met, with a feeling of pride and not undue awe.

He was certainly transformed, in size, form, and posture. He held himself with the same sort of tenacious precision that had dominated his mind in youth, now manifest in his limbs and movements. His strength was obvious, although his bulk was not that the bodybuilder, who works towards an aesthetic appearance; he was that lean muscle that comes with that of practical fitness, worked tirelessly and regularly to an optimal functioning weight, balancing tone and flexibility with strength and endurance.

However, the biggest change was to his eyes. As a boy, his gaze was only occasionally direct. There had always been a bit of a wariness about him, and while he seemed to have no trouble looking into another face if the situation called for it, it seemed that there was always a hint of defensiveness to it, as though he expected only his name and station to protect him from potential retributions. But now, there was an inner solidity, a daring and confidence that comes only from testing one's own metal and finding nothing wanting.

"Alfred," said the Master, sipping his drink, and only then did Pennyworth realize the sheen to his hair was more than it seemed. He knew he would likely find a wetsuit in the changing room off of the fore hatch, and that his current clothing had been taken from the main bedroom, where all his belongings were stored and kept as though he were actually present.

Pennyworth found himself, at last, stowing the firearm and returning his posture to that he had held since before the Master was born, "Can I assist you in any way, sir?"

The Master seemed to consider, swirling his drink before dismissing it completely, "Yes, Alfred. Alter our destination. We're going home."

The trip back to Gotham was uneventful. The Master seemed to be in a constant state of deep reflection. He tended the ship himself, as well as, if not better than, Pennyworth felt capable of himself. When he wasn't seeing to the yacht or taking his meals, he was held up in his room, using the computer. Pennyworth found himself settling into the old routine as though he had never left it, wondering why he ever thought that the return of the Master meant that he would share his mind and intentions with an aging servant such as himself.

Though the return trip was without incident, the actual arrival was wholly unexpected. The precession was rather large, though no larger than Pennyworth was used to seeing for the return of a Wayne after a long period away from home. What he hadn't expected was the throng of young women the Master's age, some who's garb was scant for early spring. Many of them screamed their delight as they made the final approach and tied off. The Master cut a handsome figure, wearing white khaki shorts and an open shirt, well-muscled abs apparent, his hair windswept and his skin golden from the sun. Despite his usually reclusive nature, the Master was instantly charismatic, smiling broadly at the reception, and greeting the women with equal exuberance, though less volume.

Pennyworth saw to his duties. As the Master finished tying off, he jumped ashore, beset by the ladies and goodnaturedly answering any questions that the reporters threw his way. As Pennyworth began unloading, he was parting the crowd to the car that had been delivered for their use when he saw none other than Harvey Dent edge the back of the crowd.

It had been a long time since Harvey had seen his boyhood friend, almost a decade, he couldn't remember. He wasn't sure what he was expecting upon his return, but this wasn't it. He knew about the girls, the string of women through the Caribbean, all of which had posted some rather illicit photos of a half-naked Bruce on social media sites, waxing poetically of their charming prince of Gotham who adorned them with gifts and luxuries by day and made their every dream and desire come true by night. Harvey had no idea these posts would elicit such a response, nor that the quiet and reserved boy he knew was this... playboy, for lack of a better term, he held before him. He was about to turn and go, pretending he hadn't seen any of this and meet Bruce later, in a more genuine situation, when Bruce, in the middle of answering a reporter's question, looked up and called, "Harvey!"

Before he could do more than go rigid, Bruce was there, embracing him. He was momentarily put out to be hugged by a nearly shirtless man, the man being his friend once notwithstanding, but he found Bruce's renewed enthusiasm infectious and was soon smiling and cutting up more than he ever had as a boy.

"What are you up to?" Bruce practically crowed. "It's been a long time! I'm so glad you're here."

"Law school," said Harvey. "My old man just about flipped his lid when I told him I had an internship at the district attorney's office."

Bruce laughed boisterously, "I bet he did. Your dad was such a blowhard! Is he the same or did he finally get that stick-ectomy?"

More than one girl laughed and Harvey couldn't help but chuckle, "He's the same."

"That's okay," said Bruce. "We won't hold that against you, will we ladies?"

There was a resounding cry from the women around them, and Harvey was amazed that one of them actually looped her arm in his.

"Now," said Bruce. "I am terribly sorry to all of you lovely newsies, but my friend is here, and I'm sure that if we don't get to partying, some of these lovely ladies will turn into pumpkins! Ladies!"

With more laughed and cries, the girls were suddenly a living organism onto themselves, with a singular will and purpose. Harvey was dragged, almost bodily, along with Bruce, to the limo that was waiting for them. Harvey's protests that he had things to do fell on deaf ears, even Bruce's. They drove around the city for hours, the limo's bar sustaining them until Bruce managed to get one of Gotham's hottest nightclub's owner on the phone and convinced her to open the doors to her club, Black Melancholy, almost half a day early. Suddenly, every girl in the limo seemed to be on their phone, making call after call, and by the time they reached the club after the agreed prerequisite time to prepare it to open, there was already a line of gorgeous youths running around the building and out of sight.

The paparazzi was in full swing as they pulled to the curb, and Harvey tried once again to make his excuses.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asked. "You can't leave now! I just got back. We have all this time to make up for! Besides, I know Marilyn doesn't want you to leave, do you, Marilyn?"

Before Harvey could really get a good look at the said Marilyn, he found himself getting pulled into line at the very front. The doors opened and Bruce was the first one in, followed by his entourage. They made their way to a central table, and after a moment, the club's owner came by and thanked Bruce for his patronage. The club was full in a matter of minutes and the party was in full swing shortly thereafter.

Harvey had trouble relaxing, but he finally did. He had some drinks, a girl on each arm, and soon it didn't matter that half of their screamed conversation couldn't be heard over the blaring DJ. They were laughing and falling all over one another. Harvey was trying to tell Marilyn some story about his dad and how he was wrong about Harvey when suddenly, she kissed him. His head was swimming, and as soon as the kiss broke, the girl on his other side kissed him. He was confused that it felt like kissing the same girl, more confused when he pulled back and it was the same girl. But no, not quiet. Marilyn was all party girl, with lips that match her nails, eyeshadow, and dress. This other girl on his left, who shared Marilyn's face, was pure goth, sultry and mysterious. He looked at Bruce who just grinned back, and despite the ludicrous juvenility of it, he high-fived his long lost friend.

The club got a bit fuzzy from there on. At one point they were served food, though Harvey was fairly certain the club didn't prepare any food. They eventually made their way to the VIP room, after which Harvey began to sober a little. At one point Marilyn handed him another drink, which made it out of his hands somehow, before Harvey thought he saw Bruce hand an identical drink to a passing girl who looked far more lucid. He noticed that Bruce didn't seem to be drinking at all anymore, but was nursing a drink that looked like it might only be soda water with lime. Harvey could have sworn he saw Bruce removing mostly full drinks from the hands of girls who looked on the edge of fall down drunk, but it all happened so fast, he couldn't be sure.

Then came the Party Planning Committee, but Harvey couldn't remember who called them that. It was one guy, electric blue hair with fluorescent pink tips, with two teen girl toadies pumping his party favors in little baggies with literal hugs and kisses.

Harvey felt largely uncomfortable, but Bruce stepped it, facilitating everything with a practical polish, examining every pill and resenting everything that wasn't marked or he couldn't identify, which wasn't much, saying, "Only the best for my girls."

The girls doled out the baggies themselves, and Harvey breathed a sigh when they were offered to no one, only taken by those that wanted them.

Harvey had another drink, as did many, and the night took on a dream-like quality. Somehow, Bruce talked a pair of what looked like marines into overseeing the girls and running off anyone who looked as though they might take advantage.

They partied into the night, Harvey getting drunk enough that he started losing snatches of time. At one point Harvey recalled Marilyn kissing him, a long kiss with a lot of tongue, leaving a pill in his mouth. Then he was kissed deeply and forcefully by her twin, and the pill was gone. He recalled a restaurant with awesome finger foods. He remembered something about a park and a jungle gym. There were bits and pieces all jumbled together of riding in the limo, coming and going, at times with the Party Planning Committee, at times without. Finally, Harvey seemed to sober enough to realize that they were in a hotel room. He was lying in a comfortable queen sized bed, the twins to either side of him. They were both bare down to underwear, which left Marilyn more than twice as nude as her sister. Managing to rise without rousing either of them, he found his shirt and walked cautiously out into the suite.

There were girls everywhere. Both of the Marines were there, with three girls between them. There were more than a couple girls nestled together in various states of undress, a pair or two spooning. He wasn't sure if he should leave or what and decided to look for the kitchen, in search of water or maybe something to eat.

As Harvey wondered past a doorway, he saw Bruce standing on a balcony, the door to the outside night wide. Before he could think to continue on, Bruce turned and saw him, gesturing him forward.

"It's a nice night," Bruce said, after Harvey had crossed the room where at least four girls lay curled in the Master bedroom's bed.

"It is," said Harvey, feeling at a loss. Finally, after a long pause, he spoke up. "Bruce, what the hell?"

Bruce didn't even flinch.

"You were gone," Harvey went on, "for years. Not just years; a decade. You don't even say goodbye. You were just gone. Then you come back and you're- I don't know what you are."

"People change," said Bruce and there was something strange about his voice. It was haunted and yet somehow haunting.

"What the hell happened to you out there?" asked Harvey. "I am a law student in the DA's office. And even so, I have seen my fair share. I know hiding when I see it. What are you running from?"

Bruce's shoulders slumped, as though succumbed by a great weight. He shook his head and said, "I am not running. I can't explain it to you. I'm not sure you would even want me to. I know the type of running you are talking about, the running, the avoidance of responsibility. It is what killed my parents. It took my childhood away from me. It makes children into bullies, the shamed and the desperate into thieves and murderers. It makes decent men wicked and cowardly. It takes the sanity out of the work. I can't live in this world and accept these things as they are. I just can't."

Harvey nodded. He guessed that if he saw all that, every day, he would try to hide from it too.

"You could always try to change it," said Harvey. "If anyone could change the world, it would be you."

Bruce smiled unhappily, "People are going to do what they are going to do. I can't change that."

"You made this night happen, all this partying," pointed out Harvey.

"Did I change anyone's behavior?" asked Bruce. "Did I inspire anything out of their norm?"

Harvey tried to see past his liquor addled brain. No, he hadn't. The driver drove. The girls guided and pulled. The owner opened the club. The Party Planning Committee supplied the drugs. The club supplied the alcohol. Even Thomas Wayne supplied the money. Bruce was there, doing just enough to let it all happen. But why? What had it all been for?

"It's men like you, Dent," said Bruce, standing straighter as the far-off horizon began to glow dimly. "Good men like you will save the world, men who see what the world is like and want to change it. The best I could do is help keep it from becoming a worse one."

Harvey smiled, "People change."

Bruce turned, and, for one long moment, Harvey could see the blank and hopeless face of the little boy that had stood beside his parents' open graves.

"Do they?"


	13. 13 - First Night

Domingo loved his work. His weekend had been good for business and it was rare to make any money on a Tuesday, but thanks to entitled rich boys, he had almost tripled his usual weekly income.

He turned to Genet and Monica, laid out on his couch, spending their nightly pay as they so often did, on slightly discounted product. They were good girls, good at peddling, enticing and sweet, with an eye for customers almost as good as his. He made sure they stuck with pills that had minimal effects on their appearance and weren't overly addicting. The last thing he needed was his girls wanting a fix before the workday was over.

He ran his hands through his pink and blue hair, a night full of poorly ventilated rooms and sweat long since melting all his product away. He didn't feel hungry tonight, simply sated. Moving to his room for a long-awaited sleep, he got the scare of his life.

Someone or something hit him. He got the impression of what it would have felt like to be t-boned in a compact by a semi. Someone came out of his bathroom, heading towards the outside wall, and Domingo's presence almost didn't seem to register, didn't slow them down at all. He smashed the screen door out of its frame, everything too sudden to give him time to scream. Still trying to hold on to the moment, the door frame, something, anything, he was forced inexorably over the railing, just being caught by the ankles, dangling six stories up. Now, he screamed.

"Who is your supplier?" demanded a harsh, low voice. "Give me a name!"

Domingo gave a series of gasping cries, trying to find something to hold onto, but he was too low, too out of control.

Suddenly, he was dropped a few inches, which focused his mind intently, "Don't drop me, bro!"

"I want a name!" the voice demanded. "Or you are going to be picking sidewalk out of your teeth with a fork."

"I can't!" cried Domingo. "I'm just a middleman! I take the fall instead o' them and I get to mark up my products as much as I want and keep the profits myself. It's how this works! You're messing with my business over here!"

So quickly it felt like no time at all, his ankles were released and his shirtfront was grabbed. He was twisted around bodily until he was upright and held at arm's length.

His assailant looked all business. His face was covered in some kind of ski mask and he was huge, though that might have just been the tactical vest and harness, hung with pouches and what looked like grenades. He was all in black, only his eyes and mouth showing. Even in the early morning darkness, those eyes held the fiercest expression Domingo could remember ever seeing. Bad trips didn't make eyes like that.

"Get... another... profession," said the assailant, words hard enough to shave ice.

Domingo felt himself being pulled in, the relief palpable. That was until he realized what he thought was mercy was only the recoil.

He sailed outward into the night, screaming the whole way down. Somehow, impossibly it seemed, he crossed the distance of the sidewalk, the patch of lawn, the fence, the deck, the shallows, and finally landing in the deep end of the pool. By the time he coughed and hacked his way to the surface, the balcony was empty.

Domingo shivered and stumbled his way upstairs. Dripping wet, he had to pound on his own door for the better part of two minutes before the girls woke up and could figure out how to open the five varieties of locks.

"What the hell, Dingo?" slurred Monica.

"Why are you all wet?" chimed in Genet.

"Shut it, bitches!" Domingo cracked through two octaves. He ran right for the kitchen, pulling a mid-sized caliber revolver and preceded to search the apartment. Everything was clear. No signs of forced entry or struggle. Even the screen door was back where it belonged.

He grabbed his backup burner phone and pulled a scrap of paper from his wallet. Subtracting a one from each number, he dialed.

"Let me talk to Tito," he said frantically. "No, goddammit! Now!"

He paced the room, the girls hunched in a corner, knowing better than to interrupt.

"Tito!" he finally cried. "Listen, man. No, I will not calm down! Listen! I just got jumped by, I don't know, an F-ing ghost, man! In my place. Yeah, I said ghost! I don't know what his deal was. He came out of nowhere, man, like the biggest badass I ever even heard of. And he came at me all sideways and wants to know your name and all. Crap no! I didn't tell him squat! Then he threw me off the balcony! Yeah, that's what I said! If we didn't have a pool, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation!"

Suddenly, the girls froze. They had been quiet before, but now, they didn't move. He looked at them and found them wide-eyed and gaping. He had just enough time to realize he hadn't relocked the front door.

He got hit again, just as hard as before. Pinned face first to a wall, the voice whispered in his ear, "Phone."

He raised up the phone, and it was taken from his grasp.

"Tito," said the voice. "I'm coming for you. You and those like you. I've seen your wears. You deal poison and death to kids. I'm taking you down. I've got your name and a number. That's enough for me. Now, I'm going to hand you back to Domingo, and you're going to tell him he doesn't work for you anymore. If you don't, I will certainly follow him right to you and be there just that much quicker."

Domingo felt the phone in his hand again. He put it to his ear.

"You there, D?" he heard Tito ask.

"Uh huh," said Domingo.

"You got a gat?" asked Tito.

"Uh huh," said Domingo, feeling the cold steel in his damp pocket, where he had stuck his revolver once the apartment checked out.

"If you put this wannabe, rent-a-cop asshole in the ground, I'll give you your next five grand worth of product at half price."

Domingo didn't think he had ever moved so fast in his life. He pulled the revolver up and spun, his first shot going into the floor before he could get it up. He unloaded the last five shots at the retreating form, somehow only missing twice. Two shots hit him squarely in the chest, the third hit somewhere in his armpit.

Domingo wasn't sure what to do. He continued to pull the trigger, over and over, but still, the assailant didn't fall. He pulled something from a pouch, shoving it roughly against under his arm before pulling a small spray bottle from somewhere and squirting down the small puddle and splatters of his blood. Then, returning to facing Domingo, he smiled.

"What do you want, man?" Domingo said.

The assailant said nothing for a moment and said, "Response time for Gotham PD to gunshots is just under ten minutes, give or take."

Domingo's eyes went wide as he looked around, drugs and drug paraphernalia scattered all over the apartment. Without thinking he began to start forward, to clearness and ditch and flush and try to run. The assailant promptly punched a rather large and noisy hole in the wall, right next to Domingo's head.

They waited, long minutes until finally, sirens could be heard. Domingo thought he would explode. There was no going back.

"I can't go to prison, man," said Domingo. "I just can't."

"You were always going to go to prison," said the assailant. "You firing you gun only help that along."

"How can you do this to me, man?" Domingo whimpered.

The assailant grabbed him by the jaw with his uninjured hand and lifted him off his feet, "You are a coward. You chose to commit felonies, knowing full well the illegality of your actions. And all actions have reactions. Face the consequences of yours with some backbone. It may help you out in the long run."

Without warning, the assailant bolted for the balcony. He disappeared over the edge, and Domingo had just enough time to get to the rail and see that he hadn't landed in the pool; he was flying, somehow curving around the building in a careful arc, disappearing again around the far corner. He slumped as the pounding on the door began, and GPD came into his home and ended his way of life.

Doctor Leslie Thompkins was glad to be home. Her work at the local free clinic was truly light work, about the closest she ever want to come to retirement, but it was still very new to her. She was used to the clinics in Gotham General and the more centrally located clinics, but she had realized less than a year ago just how much a new clinic was needed in the neglected and impoverished area of town. She was still getting used to the new staff, the new demographic, and every few nights, she was glad to return to the familiar.

She was up extremely late, as was her habit on Saturday nights, catching up on paperwork mostly, when she suddenly heard a quiet knock. That alone would have been surprising enough, but the fact that the knock came from her patio door was truly disconcerting.

She looked out the glass doors to see a young man standing there. She would have been very disturbed by his masked and sinister appearance if she didn't immediately recognize the blue eyes behind that mask.

She opened the door and quickly and quietly ushered him inside. As soon as the doors were closed, she turned to him and wasn't sure whether to hug him or scold him, but she noticed the way he held himself and realized why he was here.

"Come on over here, Bruce," she almost admonished, gesturing to the dinner table, where the light was good and both sterilization and clean up would be easy on the glass tabletop. "What is it this time?"

"The same," said Bruce. "Almost a through and through, but the bullet nicked my vest and was slowed down. Minor flesh wound. I would have taken care of it myself, but the angle is wrong and I could use a second set of hands."

Leslie knew that was the closest he would come to the request for help.

"Alfred falling down on the job?" she asked as she brought out her kit, and set to work.

Bruce's lips twitched, "He would have just insisted I call you anyway."

"You know you can't keep doing this," she said as she sanitized and worked.

"What I do is necessary," said Bruce with suppressed passion.

"I'm not talking about that," said Leslie, running her eyes over his clothing. "I'm talking about seeing yourself as indestructible. I will always be willing to help you take the bullets out, Bruce, but I'm never going to like it. I love my work, but I hate that you keep needing it."

"I know that I am not invulnerable," said Bruce. "And knowing your limits is important, but, I can't be afraid of getting hurt. The work I do is too important."

Leslie set a chair beside him so that he could drape his arm across the back of it, high enough that it would be out of the way but low enough that the muscles would be relaxed.

"Passing over the psychological implications of worthlessness that statement is rife with," said Leslie, trimming away fabric and inspecting the wound, "you need to find a better way to avoid injury. Something like this will put you out of commission for weeks if not months. It could have easily been worse."

"I can't afford that," said Bruce, as Leslie found the putty that was holding the wound closed and the blood in. "The city can't afford that."

Leslie gave him a local, "Exactly."

Bruce became very still. A moment before she could use her taken up forceps, he pulled off his mask with his free hand and tossed it down on the empty area of the table. It stared back with empty eyes, flopped almost drunkenly to one side.

"You're right," said Bruce. "I knew that there would be some trial and error to this, but I need to be able to learn from my mistakes as well. I need to rethink some of my approaches. All things considered, it was a good first attempt."

Leslie raised an eyebrow at him, "You call this successful?"

Bruce smirked, "Well, getting shot wasn't part of the plan. But I achieved everything else I set out to. As soon as I can, I'm going to back out there."

"What about the safety part of your crusade?" asked Leslie, setting up to stitch.

"I have some ideas," said Bruce. "I need specialized equipment, things that will make my job easier. Right now, all I have are flashbang, gas grenades, a grapple and some line, some forensic tools, a hacked smartphone, a medic kit, my clothing and my vest. Some surveillance equipment would be useful. Bugs, maybe some trackers. And a lot of this stuff is pretty bulky. More streamlined tools that could fit in small pouches or pockets would be beneficial."

"How about some body armor?" asked Leslie, a bit chidingly, finally drawing away the somewhat still tacky putty and wiping away the dribbling blood before setting to work. "A helmet too, while you're at it."

"Naturally," said Bruce. "And a vehicle, in case I need to get across town in a hurry. I'm going to need information access too. Maybe some kind of highly compression, streaming periphery device married to a centralized computer, able to give me information when I'm in the field."

"That sounds like a tall order," said Leslie, finishing her stitching. "Do you have any experience with producing equipment like this?"

"No," said Bruce, "but I know someone who does."

She patched him up, then pulled a few cinches in his harness, rigging it into a makeshift sling. She took a long raincoat from her closet and drew it about his shoulders, concealing all that was underneath.

"Huh," said Bruce, pulling at the coat so that it settled more comfortably. He looked to the glass of a window which functioned as a mirror despite the city lights, noting how mundane he looked, how well hidden his hands were, his tools, how hard it would be to combat that which one could not see. He pondered that while he turned back to Leslie.

"Do you remember what tomorrow night is?" she asked.

He nodded, "I do."

"Will you come out with me?" she asked. His face was more a mask than the cloth bunched on the table.

"I have things to do," Bruce said, his tone so flat it felt a moment like she was the only person in the room.

Leslie continued to clean, "Do you have a ride home? I wouldn't drive like that."

"I do," said Bruce.

She fought a smile, knowing that she would never get a thank you or be permitted to hug the boy.

"You're welcome," she said anyway, turning to find the empty room, her front door drifting slowly shut.


	14. 14 - Cue the Clown

Alberto sat back at the table, hands behind his head, "I don't see what the big deal is here."

With a protracted slowness, the rest of the men turned slowly to look at him.

"I'm just saying," he went on. "Some psycho on Mario's payroll finally goes off the deep end. If he couldn't keep his people in line, then he got what he deserved."

The Roman worked his jaw behind closed lips for a moment, then spoke, "Show so respect for your younger brother."

"Yeah," Alberto said while cocking his head, "but papa..."

The look the Roman gave his eldest could have rocked a Rottweiler back in its tracks.

"This individual," said the Roman, standing, "is not to be taken lightly. He ended the life of my son, my blood, burnt his home, disfigured his wife, left his children fatherless, and done so with so little honor and regard. I want him found, and I want him to pay."

The man to Alberto's left snickered.

"I don't just mean suffer and die," said the Roman. "I mean I want those he loves to be tortured in front of him for days. I want the things he knows and cares about to betray him. I want him to watch in horror as his world is destroyed around him. And I don't mean this metaphorically either. I want him found, alive, and then, we're going to get creative. And, if you kill him before I have received the retribution I'm due, then you'll take his place."

The man laughed, loudly, just once, then covered his mouth. After a moment silent stares, the Roman went on.

"I've heard rumors that he might be starting some sort of rival enterprise or something. Is there any truth to that?"

One of the men at the table leaned in, "It's hard to say, sir. He has gotten together some muscle and he has been pulling a couple of heists, but it has been flashy, high profile hits with little profit. It's like, he's getting his face out there, like he wants to get noticed. I don't get it. It doesn't make any sense."

The man to Alberto left guffawed, a long string of unsuppressed laughter. Finally, the Roman couldn't feign a lack of notice, "Antonio. Contain yourself."

But then, things went wrong. Antonio began writhing in his chair, his laughs so long and hard that they left him breathless. They finally looked at him, really looked, and found him terrifying. His eyes were manic, bulging in their sockets as he looked as though he was trying to scream. His laughter continued to the point his face went ashen with lack of breath, and he fell to the floor, still wheezing out a chuckle just as soon as he got enough air into him to do so. Many seats at the table were emptied, all surrounding Antonio in abject helplessness.

"Gentlemen," boomed a voice, and they all turned to find him.

"You!" boomed Alberto, and he reached into his pocket for a weapon. A white-gloved hand flashed, and Alberto fell back, his weapon falling away, a playing card stuck fast in the back of his hand.

As one, two of the figures still seated each drew a weapon, each on the Roman and his firstborn. Alberto looked defiant, but the Roman didn't blink.

"What the hell, Nico!" said Alberto. "What gives?"

"I'm sorry," said Nico, looking truly distressed. "He... uh... he has my little girl."

Albert saw that the gunman on the Roman was equally displeased if slightly more professional about it.

"Well, well, well," said the clown, giving an illustrious bow. "The infamous Roman. We meet, at last."

He jumped up on the table, crossing his legs to sit Indian-style before the Roman. Gloved hands fisted on his knees, his elbows high, he smiled, "I am here to talk business."

The Roman looked at the gunman, who took a step back and relaxed a bit. When Nico tried to do the same, the Roman shot him a look and he stayed where he was.

The Roman folded his hands, his eyes focused, as he leaned in, looking eye to eye, unblinkingly at the madman sitting, grinning before him.

"Excellent," he said, as though he saw something he likes in the Roman's eyes. "First order of business is a division. Therein, I intend to work my business as I see fit. Which means I don't want any interference from you. I will not touch the drug trade, cut in on your prostitution rings, or encroach on you protection rackets."

"What exactly is your business?" asked the Roman.

The clown smiled, "Chaos."

The Roman took two breaths, "Why should I allow you your business?"

"Because," he replied, "I am doing you a service."

The Roman's face remained impassive.

"While you all are culling profits and hiding your more colorful activities from the social and legal authorities, I will be parading my crimes up and down the streets for every Gothamite to see and gawk at!"

"You'll take the focus away from us," said Alberto.

The clown and The Roman both turned to look at him with practically identical looks of distaste.

"Why do you want to make such a spectacle of yourself?" asked the Roman. "What do you get out of it?"

The clown stood so fast, more than one of the men who were still standing motionless around Antonio jerked back in alarm.

"The world is such a splendid place," soliloquized the clown. "And yet, so many people are blind to the wonders around them. They go about their day, unaware of what it is like to feel mortal fear or what the inside of someone's head looks like! They go about their day to day routine, sleepwalking through life. It is my duty, nay! my privilege to shake things up and show the world just how fun a break from the status quo can be!"

"You're a freaking psychopath!" cried one of the men standing over Antonio.

The clown smiled, "A high functioning freaking psychopath!"

The Roman looked the clown straight in the face, seeming in complete control, despite everything.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just put you in the ground," said the Roman.

"Because," said the clown, "if you do, you won't know who was really behind the death of poor old Mario."

The Roman took eight breaths.

"He's lying," said Alberto, the desperation creeping into his voice. "He killed Mario! We have witnesses!"

"Don't say a word," said the Roman.

"All I want is to go my own way," said the clown. "No bad blood. You do your business and I play my little games and we're all just like one big happy family!"

"Done," said the Roman.

Alberto went for his gun, only to remember the card in his hand and that his gun was on the floor. There was a blur of motion, and two more cards were stuck in Alberto, one his left hand and two in his right.

"Mario planned to kill me," said the clown, grandly walking the table, as though addressing an audience. "That's true, and I don't begrudge him that. He thought I might try to kill him or his men, and he was right. He paid his due and I am over it. However, just because he planned to kill me doesn't mean he tried to."

"You god damned liar!" Alberto cried. The next card found its way into his cheek.

"You see," he went on, "men did come to kill me that night, Mario's men. But, they weren't the only ones to get a call that night. I did too. I got a tip-off, so the hit went south. So, naturally, it was a setup. But for who?"

The clown turned, and Alberto's lips twitched.

"Mario figured it out, you know," said the clown. "He told me, before I did what I needed to uphold my reputation. He knew what you did, when you came to visit him that day. You made the call from his phone. The different voice wouldn't have mattered. You could have gotten away with a word, a short phrase, but that number! No one would have argued with that. No one would have argued when their phone read 'Boss'!"

He whooped, leaping up as the Roman stood, and with the fiery of a much younger man, overturned the large table. The clown landed right where he leaped, his legs continually straight, as though standing in mid-air and landing with gentile grace.

"He's lying, papa," said Alberto, tears in his eyes and a tremulous smile on his lips. "I didn't do it."

"We are square, Joker," said the Roman. "We won't come after you. You don't interfere with us and we won't interfere with you."

The Joker smiled. With a theatrical flair, he withdrew his cards from Alberto, disappearing somewhere on his person. Alberto's grin was becoming obscene, and the Roman's eyes narrowed.

"Don't worry," chided the Joker. "I only gave him half the dose I gave him."

He indicated the dead man with the inhuman smile.

"So it won't kill him?" asked Nico, putting his gun away as he looked Alberto, who was starting let at amused murmurs with every breath.

"Oh, deary me, no!" said the Joker, straightening his suit and walking towards the door.

"How long until wears off?" asked the Roman, begrudgingly.

The Joker smiled over his shoulder from the doorway, "Never."

The Roman's face went hard. Taking the gun from the gunmen who had been covering him, he walked down the length of the floor the table had occupied. From the out hall, the Joker grinned wide as the shot rang out and wider as the shots continued. Once they had stopped, he walked back in.

"Oh!" he called, "So sorry. I meant five hours. That isn't a problem, is it?"

The Roman didn't lift his eyes from the body of his firstborn son, but his face hardened, the gun trembling.

"Didn't think so," said the Joker. "Tah-tah!"

Despite his good humor, the Joker was discontent. So far, everything he had done was positively easy. The banks had been child's play, the cops a joke. Even manipulating these so-called mobsters was nearly passable as entertainment. There was no real challenge to any of this. Even if he took his plans to bigger extremes, it would be like playing Russian Roulette with more bullets; more risk for equal reward. He needed something or someone to make the game more interesting, to add to the punchline. Maybe a cop or a criminal, someone a little bit crazy, someone willing to break out of the norm and be exceptional, like him. But who knew if he would ever find him?


	15. 15 - Natural Progression

Lucius Fox was sitting at his workbench, feeling dejected. Today was a hard day for him, just another hard day in an already hard life. He was used to feeling under appreciated. As a young black man, he became well used to it. All of his accomplishments were either dismissed or met with surprise before being dismissed. He understood it, understood the nature of the world he lived in and could not change, but what frustrated him the most was the inability to change how he felt about it. All the intellectualizing and logical deduction in the world couldn't get him out of this funk. He felt stuck, smothered, and unable to just accept the way things were and then move on. And today, it was really interfering with the work that, despite everything, he loved.

He turned his attention back to the workbench, for what felt like the millionth time in the last hour. The high torque micro motor he had been trying to get working for the last month was still lying on the bench, half assembled. And once again, he felt his mind go fuzzy, all the careful planning of piece placement going out the window with his desire to get the project to completion.

There was a sudden jarring of the door as it opened. Normally, Lucius would have been annoyed by the lack of a knock, but when he saw who came through the door, his mind went momentarily blanker.

"Hey," said the young man, his hair managing to look messy and well kept at the same time. He was dressed in expensively casual clothing, his arm in a sling, "Am I late?"

Lucius found his voice, "I don't know. When were you supposed to be here?"

The youth blinked, smiling roguishly, "Do you not know either? Awesome! Free pass!"

Lucius was only momentarily flustered, "May I ask what you are doing here?"

His face fell, "Didn't anyone tell you?"

Lucius was already through with this, heaving a sigh, "No, they did not."

"I start today," he said. "Applied Sciences, right?"

"Why are you here, son?" Lucius asked, managing to maintain his courtesy, despite his growing annoyance.

"I'm Bruce Wayne," he said, as though this explained everything.

"I know who you are, Mr. Wayne," Lucius said, as though this explained nothing.

"Wow. Mister. That's cool," he said, then went on, a little sheepishly. "I wanted to work for my company, but I didn't want to do that whole entitled, start from the top thing and have everyone hate me behind my back. I said to put me at the bottom, somewhere I could work my way up and not do too much damage. They said to come here, today. I was a little fuzzy on the details."

Lucius felt like his jaw had become iron. He didn't want to add babysitting to his list of things to do, but he might as well make the most of it.

"Alright," he said. "What sort of schooling have you had?"

"I got my GED last year," he said, proudly.

Lucius stared, trying to figure out if he was joking.

"Any aptitude in science or engineering?" he asked.

"You mean like fixing cars and stuff?" he said excitedly.

"That's one form, sure," said Lucius.

"Oh," said Wayne, his face falling again. "Then no."

Lucius took a deep breath, "Now, look, son. I get that you want to be a part of your daddy's company and I am sure that you are a very bright boy, but I don't see how you are going be of any help here."

Wayne looked suddenly disappointed.

"I'm wasting your time," he said, looking crestfallen.

Lucius realized just how big of an ass he was being.

"Okay, son, now look here," he said, resigned and trying to retain some of his dignity. "You aren't wasting anyone's time. I'm sorry. I'm not frustrated with you; I'm just frustrated. It is a long story, and it isn't your fault."

Wayne looked suddenly enthralled, "Why are you frustrated?"

Lucius settled back at his workbench almost unconsciously, "Have you ever been to Metropolis, son?"

Wayne shook his head.

"I didn't think so," said Lucius. "Wonderful city. Don't get me wrong; Gotham is my home and it always will be. But there is something about Metropolis. The city is brighter, less Gothic, more... hopeful, somehow. I really liked it. But it is also the place where I got cheated and robbed."

Wayne's eyes went wide, "Are you talking about the Astro Labs trials?"

Lucius grinned broadly, "You read up on me."

Wayne looked almost bashful, "Yeah."

"It's a good practice to have," said Lucius, "no matter what business you are doing. Always do some research. Anyway, where was I?"

"You were cheated and robbed," said Wayne.

"Right," continued Lucius, "cheated and robbed. When I came back to Gotham, I was hoping to turn over a new leaf and work with your father. He told me to apply for any job and he would advance me proportionally to the work I put in, and I did. The rest of the story you know."

Wayne was somber, "Yeah. I know."

"I don't mean to belittle your loss by talking about my own," said Lucius, "but I was really looking forward to being a part of Wayne Enterprises. And now, I get paid enough for a job I enjoy and care about that I can't ever justify leaving."

"Wow," said Wayne, "so you were going to work with my dad?"

Lucius smiled, "Not right away, mind. But at some point, I would like to think it would have happened. It's all just too bad. I had some great ideas too."

Wayne leaned in, an eagerness that mirrored Lucius' tone, "What sort of ideas?"

Lucius threw a hand upwards, as though indicating the whole building around them, "Well, as an example, the board is using an outdated business model. We keep using new technology to prop up a dying system when really we need to create a new model from the ground up."

"Based on what?" asked Wayne.

"Exponential growth," said Lucius. "We are creatures who think on linear term; we don't have the minds for exponential expansion. Even the stock market is based on expected growth and perception, but those expectations are flawed because we expect technologies and thus companies to grow linearly. And they don't."

"How would you rectify that?" asked Wayne.

Lucius nodded, "I would start implementing narrowband artificial intelligence."

Wayne chuckled, "You would replace the board of directors with a bunch of robots?"

Lucius laughed, "That's great, son! Robots! No, no. Nothing so crude. Humans are great at pattern recognition; that intuition, that leap in deductive reasoning. Computers are great at crunching numbers; they can look at a lot more information and keep all the information in play at once. I say marry the two. Human-assisted decision making. Intelligent computing handles the numbers, and humans decide what information needs to be processed and what to do with it."

"And you think that will help Wayne Enterprises?" asked Wayne.

"Hell, son," said Lucius. "It's just an idea. It could work, but how well and how long it will take to get right is anyone's guess. But we have to be willing to get our hands dirty. Try new things, be willing to dismiss tried and true methods even though they are tried and true, not be afraid to get it wrong, try again and keep trying. Understand that profits don't make for good business. It just makes for business. Great business is based on an idea and not stopping until you get that idea right."

Wayne stood up straighter. It seemed a strange thing for him to do, but Lucius couldn't see why, at first. He walked around the table, his motions different, filled with a precision and purpose that made Lucius suddenly wary. He came to sit on the other side of the workbench.

"I have a proposition for you, Mr. Fox," said Wayne, his tone suddenly that of a man much older than his early twenties, rather than a much younger one.

Lucius saw it then, saw the ploy, the staging of it. He got played like a schoolyard patsy with milk stains on an untucked shirt.

"I'm listening, Mr. Wayne," he said, his words even but not with undue caution.

"First," he said, "I want to apologize for misleading you. Understand that I did so because I needed to know what sort of man you were, not just what sort of man you appeared to be on paper or when confronted by a billionaire."

"Understandable," said Lucius, adding a nearly belated, "sir."

"And, moreover," said Wayne, "before agreeing, I must impress upon you the secrecy of what I am undertaking. I will honestly state that while it is in no way amoral, it is in no way legal. I will only divulge additional details upon your agreement to either assist me or, on your word as the honorable man you appear to be, to never share what I relay to you unless your personal morality leaves you with no alternative. Can I have your word on that?"

"Let me see if I have this straight," began Lucius, slowly as he thought it through. "You have a secret endeavor, that breaks the law, that you want my help with, that you will only tell me about if you have my word that I won't tell anyone unless I absolutely have too?

"Essentially, yes," said Wayne.

"I am not sure I understand," Lucius went on. "Why me?"

"Three reasons," said Wayne. "One, it requires your specific set of skills. Two, I need someone I can trust to make the right choice, even if it is hard, and I believe that you can and will. And three, because my father owes you. This company owes you. If our interactions in this go well, I am prepared to do all in my power to make you head of the board of directors for Wayne Enterprises."

Lucius took a deep breath. He could see it, the machinations, the stratagems, the clicking of the abacus, all the little variables in line, every tiny detail. He was still the schoolyard patsy, but this time he could see it. It was the best sort of manipulation; he could agree or he could deviate from his normal behavior, either say yes or be not himself.

He felt the indigence rise up, the chest pounding, male dominance display reeving up to go, the rant about not being a pawn, but he dismissed it for what it was pointless. He was had, and he knew it. But, that didn't mean he had to like it or agree with it.

"Mr. Wayne," sighed Lucius. "I can't help but feel I have no choice in the matter."

Wayne nodded, slowly, "I can see how you would feel that way."

Lucius began to weight his options, considering possibilities, risk verse reward. As he contemplated, he happened to glance down and started. The micromotor was fully assembled. He had not been paying attention as he had been talking and had absentmindedly finished his work. He picked it up, looking it over.

"What is the weight limit?" asked Wayne.

Lucius scrutinized him, "You know what this is?"

"It's a reel," said Wayne. "If you set it in tandem with itself and appropriately sync them, you would convert it into a pulley system. It would allow you to distribute the load, so you could increase the reeling speed or size of the load."

Lucius did the math and realized he was right.

"I need something like this," said Wayne, "for my project. What kind of line does it use?"

"It's a carbonic monofilament," said Lucius. "Why do you need this?"

Wayne just looked at him, expectantly. Lucius couldn't help but smile.

"Now, if you ain't the damnedest son of a bitch I ever did see!" laughed Lucius. "I sure hope that I'm never on the opposing side of a boardroom table from you. How old are you, son?"

"I'll be twenty-three in less than two weeks," said Bruce. "February 19."

"Okay, Mr. Wayne," cajoled Lucius. "Okay. You have my word."

Bruce spent most of his time for the rest of the year at Wayne Enterprises. He and Lucius ran through all of the Applied Sciences' annual budget in a matter of weeks, and Bruce was able to set a few dummy corporations to funnel addition funding through. After that, they pulled out all the stops.

They started with the harness. It merged with the tactical vest, which was also redesigned. A codpiece that doubled as leg supports was added, allowing the wearer to be supported entirely and comfortable from the waist. The dual reel system was worked into the belt, allowing for speedy repelling or ascending with little issue. They devised a riveting assembly that could be fired from a handheld device, towing a monofilament line and driving it into just about any industrial material on impact and doing so with enough force to support a five hundred pound jerk-stop from terminal velocity.

The vest came next, custom fitted for comfort and efficiency. The base layer was mylar, backing two layers of a micro-weave kevlar variant. Sandwiched between the two layers was a non-Newtonian gel, sown into hexagonal pockets for guarantee distribution. The gel was an improvement on the variety that Star Labs still had the patent to, but since it was never going to get commercial use, it really didn't matter. Attached to the outer layer of kevlar was a series of carbon ceramic composite armor plating, each plate strategically arranged to still allow for maximum range of motion. Once constructed, the armor was capable of stopping all small arms fire. It took a well placed fifty caliber round to get through.

Next, they extend from the vest outward, including arms and legs. Bruce had recovered from his injury, and they attempted several variations to optimize the range of motion, weight, protection, and comfort through a wide range of activities, such as climbing, running, rolling, swimming, fighting, driving, riding, and falling.

The adaptations continued as they added gloves and boots. The gloves were particularly hard, attempting to balance protection and maintain dexterity. Once they had the extremities taken care of, they worked on a helmet. After a few incarnations, they incorporated it down into the rest of the suit, leaving only the mouth and the eyes visible.

"We've got the basic design locked down," said Lucius in mid-August. "You could take it out tonight if you wanted."

"But," said Bruce.

"But," repeated Lucius, "As my momma used to say, if something's worth doin', it's worth doin' right."

"Meaning?" asked Bruce.

"Let's knock this one out of the park," Lucius said enthusiastically. "I think the word of the day is integrated technology."

"Interesting," said Bruce. "What've you in mind?"

"Augmented reality," Lucius said, "some localized computing, throat mics for communication, maybe some movement augments too."

"Audio augs too," Bruce said, taking up the tablet they were using to make notes. "I'm thinking a laser mic, a directional mic, and one for basic ambient noise. Also, an HD camera set up between the eyes. Plus, I want to build a computer that I can have an always-on secured connection for, what did you call it?"

Bruce thought a moment, "Human-assisted decision making."

Lucius took up a second tablet and began making notes, putting together a shopping list, "Also, it is worth putting together some additional tech gear. Disposable short-range wireless USB jacks, a variety of card readers, all known wireless senders and receivers, and, while we're at it, night vision."

Integrating the technology proved to be a challenge. Creating electronic relays that had the appropriate amount of giving while maintaining signal integrity and not have wires with excessive slack rapidly became daunting, to say nothing of doing so within the suit and not compromising the armor. In the end, they kept the bulk of the hardware in either the belt or the gauntlets, communicating wireless all but the highest bandwidth items, such as the HD camera and the AR HUD.

Finding the right materials for the lenses to the helm was an interesting task. They ended up using a cutting-edge molecular LED system that was seated in a dense translucent polymer, which required several upgrades to Applied Sciences' laser etching equipment. Once the internal systems for the suit were operational, they began working on the secondary computer.

"What sort of AI are we going to use?" asked Lucius.

"I want an anti-entropic core with a self-regulation and optimizing associative database," said Bruce, "articulated through web browsing."

"Anti-entropic?" asked Lucius.

Bruce nodded, "It is a system inspired by the concept that intelligence is the universe's natural response to entropy. The principle is that intelligence exists to maximize options and ability and that the best decision an intelligence can make is the decision that increases the number of decisions an intelligence can make. This concept allows anti-entropic AI to do a wide variety of tasks that narrow band AIs can do without needing to be coded or trained."

"Interesting," said Lucius. "And the database?"

"Basically," said Bruce. "I want to create a self-referential database that can allow the AI to make fundamental deductions about words and general information through sheer brute force."

"Ah," said Lucius smiling. "So, it won't be capable of making the same intuitive deductions human will, but it will be able to make mostly correct inferences by statistic probability after correlating information off the net and storing what it learns on the database in shorthand."

"Exactly," said Bruce. "It will require me to do less micromanaging and allow me to do more macro. As for hardware specs, I think the best money can buy goes without saying. Let's try for the best that the best minds can think of and construct."

"I have some colleagues I can consult," Lucius put in. "We generally chat about developing technology. Presenting this to them as a thought experiment will be easy, and it will help that the required budget for a project like this will appear cost prohibitive to them. Now, for the important point; where are we going to construct it?"

Bruce smiled, "I haven't the faintest. Here, initially, but I will need to keep it somewhere else. Maybe rent a space under an assumed name, or find somewhere that no one would ever go. If we are talking about the sort of supercomputer I think we are, underground might be useful. The lower the ambient temperature, the better."

Bruce commissioned space in the Wayne Tower basement. The computer took a fortnight to get operational after all the planning had been done and the components had all arrived. Once the hardware was running, it took a month to get the AI up and running and twice that to get the database to be passably useful.

Finally, it was ready. The 2.0 suit was one contiguous piece, covering but the area around the mouth. Everything was functioning and field tested, belts and compartments stocked, battery lives tested. Relays were checked, backup systems double checked. Fit and comfort were good, bugs were sorted, and design flaws were redesigned.

Bruce stood looking at it, the culmination of all his and Lucius' hard work.

"What is it?" asked Lucius, knowing the look.

"Something is missing," said Bruce. He looked over the rounded head, the slightly enlarged eyes, the musculature look of the armor plates, the modern, tactical look of it all. "It needs something more, but I just don't know what it is. Maybe, it will come to me."


	16. 16 - Knight of Night

Tito was not happy, and it wasn't just because the Roman wasn't happy. It had been less than three weeks since the deaths of both his sons, and between the void that was left in the organization's management and the fact that this psycho clown got off scot-free, everyone was either demoralized or chomping at the bit to see who was going to move up in the world.

Tito sat with his boys, Nico, Nate, Jimmy, and Donnie. Nico was still having a hard time of it. After his work spilled into his home life, his girl left him, taking their little girl with her. He was taking the whole thing kind of rough. The boys were doing all they could, but nothing seemed to help.

"Come on," said Tito. "We are so better than this."

The others looked at him, noncommittally.

"I'm serious," said Tito. "We've hit hard times before, and we'll hit hard times again. Such is life. But moping like a bunch of teenage girls whose boyfriends just broke up with us is so beneath us. We should go out, have some fun. Celebrate being young and alive, all that bull!"

His tone was not infectious, but it did engender a smile or three.

"Come on!" he said again. "It's on me."

That at least got their attention. Nate was about to go run out and get the car when the power went out. They heard someone swear in the kitchen, and stood up, using their phones as makeshift flashlights. It was surprisingly dark in The Restaurant without power.

"What's going on?" asked Nico, and something about the expression on his face in the dim light of his phone made them all still and serious.

"That's weird," said Nate, running back from the front. "It's just us. Even next door is fine."

There was the sound of someone dropping dishes in the kitchen, then all was quiet.

"I'm not playing this game," Nico said, starting to sound frantic. "Not anymore. Not again!"

"What's going on?" asked Donnie.

"Don't you see?" asked Nico. "Something's coming for us! It's like that night with the goddamned clown!"

"You're imagining-," Tito said and never finished.

The busboy, who had last been seen in the recess that led to the kitchen, started yelling repeatedly, "Who's there?!"

Halfway through his fourth iteration, his voice choked off and, with barely a whisper, fell silent.

"What the hell is this?" asked Jimmy, sounding more annoyed than anything.

"No, man! No!" said Nico. "Don't you get it? Something's after us! Can't you feel it? It's hunting us! Like a demon!"

"Or a ghost," echoed somewhere in the back of the Restaurant and every one of them froze. It didn't sound human.

"Wait," said Tito, searching his memory. "It's the guy. The one who took down that kid last year, what's his name? That club pusher with delusions of Bob Barker?"

The far back, right corner flashed, so bright it lit the room. Between the light and the resounding pop that accompanied it, all the armed men in the room other than Tito unloaded their entire clips in that direction.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Tito called over the noise. "What are you doing?! That's just what he wants! Dammit, who has another clip?"

After a moment of silence, he realized he was the only one with bullets left.

Suddenly, Jimmy's phone fell from his grip, his voice becoming distant with the sound of his body dragging across the floor. His cries cut off just as sharply as the busboy's but the silence was punctuated with the sound of impacting flesh. Next, someone raced out of the shadows and grabbed Nate, disappearing with him, and Tito couldn't fire with risking hitting him.

"It's going to get us, one by one," cried Nico. "We're all going to die!"

Tito smacked him across the face, "Can it, Nico! It's just a guy. Just some wannabe guy who is trying to scare us. We got this."

Donnie's phone went tumbled off to one side as his screams traveled impossibly upward, into the darkness before he came flying back down, barely visible as he landed feet first on a table a dozen feet away. He laid there groaning on the collapsed wood, unable or unwilling to move.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," whimpered Nico. Tito had had enough. Turning, he pistol whipped him in the back of the head. He went down without another word. Then, his gun arm was wrenched around, his weapon spinning away. In the merger light from his phone, he saw his attacker as he was whipped around and leveraged into the nearest wall. Despite being hoisted off his feet by the collar, he stared down in astonished disbelief.

"You look like a damned space bug," he said, taking in the segmented armor plates and the nearly featureless helmet, except for the eyes.

"I'm shutting you down," the bug man said, his voice pitch-shifted down and metallic sound as he slammed Tito against the wall.

"Bull," said Tito. "You're nothing but some two-bit punk in modded motorcycle gear with a few tricks. You don't scare me. You got nothin'! You ain't no cop, and if you touch me, you'll answer to the Roman."

The attacker smiled, and it was not a happy smile, "Last chance, dirtbag. You're garbage who deals death to kids. I have no qualms about mopping the place with you."

Tito pulled a knife and went for his ribs. It made an odd sound and didn't go nearly as deep as he would have liked. It was still enough to get him dropped. He didn't get two steps before he got hit and went down.

Tito was dazed. He heard the knife hit the floor some distance away, then a strange gurgling sound, and then a spray of some kind. When he was finally coming around, he got grabbed by the collar and flipped onto a table.

"Shut down your operations!" his attacker screamed into his face. Tito snorted, "Not even if you paid me, you two-bit freak."

The attacker hit him, again and again.

Bruce had to get through him; this had to work. Why wasn't it working?! He had done everything right and still, he wasn't caving. He wasn't taking responsibility for his actions and didn't care who he hurt. How could Bruce fight that?

Tito snorted again and spit blood onto the table next to him. Bruce threw him to the floor

"Are you done?" asked Tito, sounding bored.

"We're just getting started," said Bruce. Tito smiled, "No, we're not."

The flashlights momentarily blinded Bruce, but his night vision compensated.

"Don't move!" yelled the officer. "Put your hands on your head!"

"What the hell?" he heard another officer say. "What the hell is going on?"

"He attacked us!" said Tito, undisguised outrage in his voice. "Get him!"

Bruce wasn't ready. He hadn't been paying attention. He thought it would be over by now, and he still had two minutes left. It had been fast, too fast. He didn't have all the information. There was only one explanation; this place was protected, by organized criminals and, now he knew, dirty cops. He had no plan.

Bruce turned, twisting as he dropped to a knee. The first shot missed high, and he was too close to Tito to risk more. He flung something which went off like a flashbang, blinding everyone in the room. He got three steps before one of the cops lunged for him, catching him haphazardly around the arms.

"Jim!" shouted the further officer and the officer that had Bruce called, "I got him!"

Bruce recognized the voice. What had been a hold break and strike shifted to hold break and shove, poorly handled in the moment.

He turned and landed a blow to the second officer as he came forward, staggering him to the ground and knocking the gun from his hand. Without a backward glance, Bruce bolted for the front. He fired his grapple, strung it through his belt and engaged the feed, launching up into the night, but not before three round stuck the ceramics on his back like punching fists.

Gordon watched as the suspect literally flew up into the night. He knew he had hit him, and yet it hadn't even slowed him down. Who was this guy?

"You okay, Steve?" he asked his partner.

"Just peachy," said Steve. "I'm seeing cartoon birdies over here. The guy has a right cross like a sludge hammer."

Gordon frowned in the darkness, picking up his radio and calling it in. He was sure there was something up. From what he had seen of the room, this suspect had taken out a room of armed men. He hadn't seen any weapons on him, and he had the sinking suspicion that when forensics got there, they wouldn't find any. He knew Green Barrettes with less skill. He wasn't a hit man. What was going on?

"Did I see what I thought I saw?" asked Steve. "Did I just see that guy fly away?"

"I'm sure there is a perfectly logical explanation," said Gordon.

"For flight?" expounded Steve. "Did you hit him?"

Gordon nodded, "Three times."

"Oh, I see," Steve said, sarcasm dripping, "you plugged him three times, but he still has no problem FLYING AWAY?!"

"Don't worry about," said Gordon. "I know how this looks. I'll take primary on this one."

"What is the commissioner going to say?" asked Steve.

Gordon nodded, knowing what this meant, "Leave Loeb to me."

Pennyworth was not sure what he was walking in on. He was sure that it was the Master, as the alarm had not sounded, but given the commotion, he wasn't sure what to expect. The odd helm was dropped unceremoniously to one side, followed by what looked like modern motorcycle gloves and boots. In the main living area, the Master was positioned on a rich ottoman, bare to the hips, and armored shirt to one side, a first aid kit to the other. Sitting erect, his arm raised, he was in the process of stitching a shallow wound to his side. Given to stiffly stoic expression he bore, he was doing so without anesthetic.

"Master Wayne," Pennyworth said, acknowledging his own appearance. "Is there anything I can get for you, sir?"

"I'm fine, Alfred," he said, his teeth gritted.

Pennyworth examined the stitching and found them sound, "Shall I prepare bandage for that, sir?"

"If you would," said the Master, trimming the excess of his last stitch. He cleaned the area with sterile swabs until Pennyworth came to apply the bandage.

"I failed tonight, Alfred," he said, his voice far away.

"In what way, sir?" Pennyworth asked, his tone even.

The Master kicked the table, scattering the spoiled implements and the first aid kits contents, breaking and overturning the table, the expression of quiet anger never left his face.

"I failed," he said again. "I wasn't good enough. I couldn't do the job I needed to. And because of that, more people will get hurt. More people will die. People's parents, their brothers and sisters, their children. All will be taken advantage of and be killed, if only by inches, and it's my fault. I had the opportunity to change it, to prevent crime and make it better, and I couldn't do it."

"No one expects you to be perfect, sir," said Pennyworth, not beginning to clean until he was sure the devastation was over.

The Master kicked the ottoman into the far wall, fragmenting both.

"I expect me to be," he said, his voice louder yet not loud. "I have worked too hard and come too far to fall short. I am better than this. I just need- something. Something more. They aren't afraid of me, Alfred. I am just a man in a suit. They have no context, no reason to fear me. I need to become something more, something beyond human, something supernatural, something that inspires terror in the hearts and minds of all criminals. Something like the opposite of that."

Walking to the mess, he took up a newspaper that Pennyworth hadn't seen and, despite the seemingly imprecise method of throwing, managed to land the unbound paper face up and in one piece.

The headline read, "Superman saves Metropolis Tram!"

Below it was a touched up security camera image of a man in red and blue, a cape about his shoulders, his back to a dented train, his feet planted and his hands gripping the base of its frame, as though he were pulling it. As he quickly read the article, he realized it wasn't just an implication.

Pennyworth considered the Master's words, "How do you mean, opposite?"

"Look at it, Alfred," he said. "The red and blue, bright primary colors. His face is unmasked, unapologetic, standing in the sun. Every bit of it is precise, by design, calculated, all to help inspire trust."

"And you want to do the opposite?" asked Pennyworth.

"Yes," said the Master. "Dark grays or blacks, all matted. My face masked, inhuman, other. Secretive, nonspecific, misconstrued, mythical, always shrouded in darkness. Engendering fear and doubt."

Pennyworth bit his proverbial lip, but the Master was too perceptive, "Speak your mind, Alfred."

Pennyworth considered, trying to phrase his thoughts succinctly, "I do beg your pardon sir, but why walk this... this dark path? Why not, as you said, inspire trust? Why must you desire to be feared?"

The Master's eyes went distant, lost in contemplation. He seemed to come back to himself, walking to the high backed chair and taking the large tablet from the side table, withdrawing the stylus and opening a sketchpad application.

"My parents are dead," he said as he drew a rough sketch of a human figure. "And I cannot abide that. I understand that the optimal path, likely the healthier path, would be to forgive what one man did in fear and desperation and to move on with my life. But I can't. I am not suggesting that it can't be done, but that I cannot. I will not. I don't want to be the man who sees the injustice of it and does nothing. I do not want to be the man who knows he has the ability to prevent this pain in others and won't. But more importantly, I want to do this."

He broke up the silhouette, adding two points, like horns, like ears, animalistic.

"I want to share my righteous outrage with the world, revealing the neglected truth to those who seek to hide it from themselves. I want to be a champion of the disenfranchised, defending those would others would exploit and deface, because I know their pain. I want to be the thing in the dark that those who thrive on darkness fear."

He added an amorphous cloak, edged in the spiked curves indicative of the mammalian wing, that of dragons, of demons.

"I want to be this vigilant vigilante. I want to be this crime fighter. I want to be..."

He considered for a long moment, appearing to be running calculation though his mind. Finally appearing satisfied, he turned the image for Pennyworth to examine fully, "Batman."

Pennyworth looked on, feeling a sort of dread spread through him, though whether it was fear for what might become of his charge or a thrill at what his charge might be capable of, he was not sure.


	17. 17 - Promotion and Incarceration

"Gordon!" called the voice over Gotham's downtown precinct. "My office!"

Gordon waved a hand as his partner rose to join him, "I've got this."

He walked into the commissioner's office, wondering if it was good news or a reprimand. As it turned out, it was both.

"Congratulations," said Loeb, tossing a new shield onto the front side of his desk. "You made Captain, despite the ridiculously outlandish quality of your casework as of late."

"What is so ridiculous about it, sir?" asked Gordon, picking up the badge.

Loeb raised an eyebrow. He flipped open a file on his desk and read aloud, "The suspect then preceded to use some unknown method of movement to ascend out of sight."

Gordon nodded, "Yes, sir. That's what happened."

"It sounds like CYA bullcrap, Gordon," said Loeb. "I've got officers ranting about some clown, and I mean that literally, running around town robbing banks for kicks, and now you're telling me we have one of those damned so-called heroes here too."

Gordon had read the paper, "Sir, I'm not stipulating anything. If there is an active vigilante in this city, then there is. Whether or not that is the case won't change what I put in my reports."

"Well," said Loeb, sitting up. "Maybe it should."

Gordon's expression didn't change, as immovable as stone.

"Something is happening out there, Jim," said Loeb, pivoting to look outside. "This town is changing. IA investigations are up sixty-seven percent, yet their convictions have stayed low. This guy pops up in Metropolis, acting like he can do our jobs. All the tragedy in the world is getting splashed all over the internet, more and more every day, every minute. Every jerk off on a street corner with a camera phone can point it at us and think to hold us accountable. They don't see the fights we deal with, every day. The last thing we need is more written evidence that we can't do our jobs right."

Gordon said nothing for a long moment, then said, evenly, "With all due respect, sir, but that sounds like more of a reason to not fudge facts, not less."

Loeb turned to face him, slowly, "Gordon, you're a good man. A good cop. So, I'm going to make this brief; if you want to get ahead in this world, you've got to be willing to play ball. Being good at this job is only half of it. The office politicking is the other half. And no one likes a self-aggrandizing goody-two-shoes making the rest of us look bad."

Gordon managed to get out of the commissioner's office before he did anything stupid, like defenestration. He knew that Loeb wasn't part of the problem, but he seemed to be doing his damnedest to not be part of the solution either. Gordon wasn't exactly sure when Gotham PD had gone sour. Maybe it always had been and he just couldn't ignore it anymore. Or maybe it had started with Flass and had gotten worse from there. As he knew was that he could not abide it anymore. Now that Flass was no longer his partner since he had been promoted, he could begin the process of disentangling himself and working towards cleaning up his precinct.

Gordon had no more love for the city than the next man, but he had made it his duty to protect and serve and he took that seriously and personally. It was the hardest thing in the world to watch as they lost Gotham slow to those who took what they could get and damned the rest. It was like watching a family member go south, take a turn for the worse. He just prayed that he was in a position to do something about it by the time Barbara was old enough to put her mark on the world.

He was hardly in his desk, preparing to gather his things for his new office when the call came over the radio; bank robbery in progress, Gotham National, suspect alias the Joker.

He was in his car, pulling out before he realized Flass was halfway in the passenger seat, "Whoa Jimbo!"

"In or out!" called Gordon, taking the moment to buckle up.

Flass hadn't closed the door before rubber met road with precision.

"What's your rush?" called Flass, punch the siren and lights with unnecessary force.

"This Joker has already hit seven banks in less than four months," said Gordon, his voice hard and loud in the confined space. "This is the first major heist he's tried, and even if I have to drive this car in through the lobby, we're gonna get him!"

They managed to get to the bank in record time, beating every other uni in the city. They pulled up to the front, knowing there were likely hostages inside. Opening their doors to use as barriers, they ducked down behind them, and as Gordon was about to talk into the megaphone handset, a terrific jolt shook the car. From out of nowhere, out of the sky, someone slammed bodily down on the hood of the patrol car.

It only took a cursory glance for Gordon to realize who it was. The tall, slim mid-twenties young man had acid green hair and a widows-peak, looking out of place somehow on someone so young. His thin lips were bloodied in one corner of his smiling mouth, at garish odds with his white made up face.

The shoulder of his suit jacket was torn, and though he lay in the middle of the overly large dent he had just put in the hood, he showed no other sign of injury. And, at last, his gaze turning upward to the sky above, the Joker suddenly began laughing with a manic intensity that was both mesmerizing and haunting.

Following his gaze, Gordon saw it. He wasn't sure what it was, but it was large, with wide, unmistakable wings, rising up and around a neighboring building. Long after the apparition was gone, the Joker's echoing laughter followed after.

"Flass," Gordon said, clipping his new shield to his coat front, "take that man into custody. Every word, every step by the book, textbook perfect. You got it?"

For a moment, Flass looked like he would rather bite off the tip of his tongue and swallow it, but he was still a smart hot head. His eyes roved over Gordon's shield, doing a double take, then he relented, doing as instructed to the letter, if with bad grace.

Backup showed just as Gordon got around the car. He approached the bank cautiously, but his pace and speed became surer as he saw civilians starting to run out to the police in twos and threes.

His weapon drawn, he glanced back to make sure the officers were controlling the crowd, waiting for Bullock and Montoya, a uni and a rookie who were running up, weapons ready. They entered the bank as a team, Bullock taking lead and Montoya cover the rear, ready for anything.

It was fairly quiet inside. All but a few civilians had made it out, and those remaining were bank employees. There was a dull haze in the air, and as they were preceding to clear the bank, Gordon followed the smoke and realized someone was up there.

"Hold it, Bullock," he said.

"What's up, Lou?" the uni shot back.

"That's Captain, Bullock," he bit back.

Bullock worked his toothpick into the corner of his mouth with both hands still secured on his sidearm, "Congrats, Cap."

"Hold position," Gordon said, raising his weapon upward. Louder, he continued, "This is the Gotham Police. Identify yourself."

The perp was now clearly visible, the haze clearing away. He was hanging by his feet, not far from the vaulted ceiling. From his body language, he was trying to go unnoticed.

"Get me down," he said in a quavering voice. "Please. I totally give up."

"Hey, Cap," said Bullock, two seconds before they heard the guard call out.

"Over here," said the guard. He looked shaken but was standing strong. "I've got the other two over here. It took the other one."

"It?" asked Bullock as he and Gordon approached while Montoya covered the guy on the ceiling. "What it?"

"That's enough, Bullock," said Gordon, surveying the guard. "We will question the guard just as soon as all the suspects are in custody."

The guard was obviously retired police force, his hat nowhere to be seen. His holster had been ripped from his belt, but he had recovered his weapon. He had what looked like two sets of false teeth, each clapped to his wrists hard enough to draw blood. There had been a chain between the two, by the links had been broken. He stood poised beside one suspect who had found a corner beside the wall and the counter, staring at the floor with no signs of moving. The guard had his weapon trained on the final suspect who was lying some feet away, very unconscious.

"Check that man," said Gordon, pointing. Bullock trotted over, checking his vitals and calling for a bus.

"I understand about containment sir," said the guard, his weapon and voice lowered. "I can't rightly tell you what I saw. I was on the floor for most of it. But what I did see was gas, this team of four clowns taken apart in about as many seconds, and from the look and sound of it, a giant bat did it."

"Thank you," Gordon said. "I will have one of the officers take down your statement. I would appreciate it if you could make it as factual as possible."

The guard nodded, "I understand, sir. I heard about that guy in Metropolis. You think this is the same kinda thing?"

Gordon turned to the man in the corner, noticing for the first time that he was whispering, over and over.

He leaned in and heard, "It's coming for all of us. It was a demon, and it's coming for us. It came at us sideways, like inside our minds. It was everywhere and nowhere. It's not human. It's not real. What are we going to do?"

"No," said Gordon. "I think that this is something else."


	18. 18 - Changes and Exchanges

The next several months in Gotham were marked by change, but it was subtle, transitional, without a definitive beginning, middle, or end. Premeditated crime began to decrease, and after a slight uptick in crimes of passion, those statistics began to drop as well. Rumors began to circulate amongst the lower class and the downtrodden, whispers of a monster that was plaguing those that preyed upon them. New clinics began to open all over town. Some were designed to help recovering addicts, some worked to return the homeless to society, and some staffed specialist that worked towards curing violence as though it were a disease. As the illegal means for treating civil unrest began to disappear, these organizations were ready and willing to handle the upsurge.

As organized crime began to take a hit, it wasn't long before small gangs tried to take up the slack. While overall crime went down, actually if not necessarily statistically provable, there was an increase in exotic crimes. The gangs began to wear extreme signature clothing, the most prominent of which was the Killer Clowns. They were given almost purposeful free reign for a few weeks before they were hit as well, relentlessly. One by one they fell, and for the first time in Gotham's history, there is no rush to fill the territorial vacuum.

And, as all this was going on, GPD was in a massive state of flux. Through the combination of surprisingly knowledgeable anonymous tips and a certain intern turned assistant to the district attorney, entire threads of police corruption was rooted out, finding its way all the way to Commissioner Loeb. While it was never proved that he ever committed a single crime, it was proven that he looked the other way when he discovered members of his staff who did, and he was offered a quiet early retirement, which he accepted with as much grace as he could stomach.

A new mayor was elected, Marion Grange. The former District Attorney was the underdog of the election but was supported by several upper-class citizens to carrying the bulk of the vote. She had enough political smarts and clout to capitalize on the very public revelations of corruption, and the idealism to want to continue and maintain the trend. As soon as she was elected, she did everything in her power to get James Gordon as Commissioner and succeed.

Under Gordon's watchful eye, the force began to change drastically. Mandatory counseling was required for three months out of the year, though many stayed longer. There was a strict policy against unnecessary force, as well as a decrease in by the book charges for first-time offenders and crimes that were both prevented and minor. Pride began to fill the force in a way that no record had ever showed happened in Gotham history, and with that pride came hard work, loyalty, a willingness to be inconvenienced, and the true epitome of the motto to protect and serve.

The trial and sentencing of the Joker was a citywide spectacle that was almost national news. He almost managed to temporarily escape three times before he was kept in full body restrains whenever he was out of his cell. During his incarceration around the trial, he was eventually muzzled for his own protection after his verbal wheedling incited two guards to assault him on two separate occasions. Once to trial, he proved to be unrepresentable by any lawyer, and after nearly four mistrials, the forward-thinking judge proclaimed him psychopathic and relegated him to Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane until such time that he could reinstitutionalized.

While all of this was going on, no one noticed the construction that seemed to be going on in the vicinity of Wayne Manor. Any work crews that came in were either licensed in securities construction, building panic rooms for the wealthy or contracted from international firms, both of which knew the value of discretion and were paid well for their silence. The work was supplemented by new automated construction machines, able to work around the clock and though still in the prototype phase, did the work required of them. It certainly helped that they were the property of Wayne Enterprises, and their whereabouts were well documented by a Lucius Fox as being tested elsewhere. Transportation of hardware for a massively paralleled supercomputer was delivered in broken up installments, as many as possible off the books. All in all, a base of operations was established without a hitch.

It was nearing the end of his first month as Commissioner when Gordon was sitting in his office, looking over his vigilante file. The vigilante was human, he was almost sure of it. There had never been a case of him doing anything superhuman and while no one in the city could give him a clear description and no image had yet been documented of the man, they were making progress.

Jim sighed and leaned back in his chair; maybe not great progress. The force had been doing amazingly well in every other regard, except the vigilante. He was about to get up and head home when a shadow passed between him and the window and he froze. He hadn't heard a sound, but he knew how to listen, to hear the sounds that should be echoing through empty space but weren't, the muffling of a body. Gordon turned and rolled away, his hand finding an empty holster. He was about to go for his back up before he realized it was still in his desk. He turned, finding his target for the first time.

The vigilante was huge or appeared huge. With spiny ears and the gentle billowing of his cloak, it was impossible to tell just how big. Gordon didn't get more than a seconds glance before the light overhead went out.

Gordon went for his gun in the desk, not finding it.

"Commissioner," came a deep, digitally modulated voice. "I'm not here to hurt you."

Gordon settled for the baton that hung from his coat rack beside his door, grabbing it and holding it at the ready, "I don't care. I'm taking you in. You are a felon."

"I have broken no law," said the vigilante.

"You are an outlaw," said Gordon, inching forward towards the voice in the darkness.

"I am a Samaritan," he said roughly. "Of all the city officials, you are the foremost authority on who I am and what I do. Tell me my statistics."

Gordon didn't lower the baton or his eyes. He didn't need to read his files to recite the information.

"Your response time is better than ours," said Gordon, not sounding begrudging at all. "In all the documented cases in which you have been sighted or witnessed, you were present before the crime was reported almost thirty percent of the time. In every case you have been associated with, fifty to one hundred percent of suspects have been apprehended by us. There have been more confessions in the last three months than in the last three years before that, and every one of your perps, who could have made it to trial, have. And you have never used deadly force, despite deadly force being regularly used against you."

"If I were an officer, what would you do?" the vigilante asked.

"Promote you," said Gordon. "Try to replicate your strategies and behaviors in as many other officers as I could. Try to find methods to improve upon them."

"I don't trust what I have at my disposal in the hands of another," said the vigilante, " any more than you would trust any punk on the street with your gun."

Gordon considered what he was saying.

"I trust you, Gordon," he said. "You are one of the only city officials I trust to do more than his or her job. I am not expecting you to trust me back, but I hoping someday you will."

Gordon looked at the silhouette in the darkness for a long time without speaking. Finally, he asked, "Who will keep you in line? Keep you honest?"

"You will," said the silhouette. "If for any reason you deem fit, you want me to give myself up to the authorities, hold a press conference. If you are holding it of your own free will and not under any sort of political duress, use the phrase 'For the good of the city'. Do that, and I'll come in, no questions asked."

Gordon thought about this for a long moment.

"The system is there for a reason," he went on as Gordon listened. "I know that. But no system is perfect. I can be the stopgap, ready to keep those in check who exploit the system and willing to take actions that you can't risk because of the political fallout. I can be a media distraction, a scapegoat, a hero, a villain, anything this city needs of me."

Gordon's eyes brows narrowed, "What about you? Don't you get any say in all this? In how the city sees you?"

There was a rustle of what sounded like cloth, "It isn't about what I want. I can't be seen as a man by this city, for multiple reasons. Those who plague Gotham must see me as something more than merely human in order for what I do to be effective. Those who need someone to blame for their problems can use me. Those officials who are under strain and need to relieve political pressures can point fingers at me. It is so much easier if they don't see me as a person."

Gordon stared for what seemed like minutes, "Why are you doing this?"

He stepped sideways so that a bit more of his profile could be visible.

"Crime happens. Trying to stop it all together is impossible. The best anyone can do is try to minimize it, to prevent as much of it as possible. But it still happens, often at the expensive of good people. We still live in a barbarous age; and for that, sometimes we need a barbaric solution."

Gordon realized at that moment that his eyes weren't on the vigilante anymore. Despite have a perpetrator, one that had proven an aptitude for violent behavior, in his own office without invitation, and he had taken his eyes off of him. He trusted this man that was something more, something other, and Gordon found himself wondering if that something more was a quality that he himself possessed.

"What do I call you?" asked Jim, the baton discarded, his hand extended.

They shook, "Batman."


	19. 19 - Personal Growth

The cell was unrecognizable from the time before the current occupant had occupied it. The walls were covered drawing and strange irregular snowflakes of paper, all torn rather than cut after the pen incident. All the drawing were felt tip, all the tape given pre-torn and in small enough segments that they could not be used as a garrote. Every drawing, every folded, every meticulously torn and unfold paper, every snowflake had the same icon throughout; a bat in flight.

The Joker was in the high-security ward and classified as a high-risk patient. In the eighty-six days he had been at Arkham, there had been fourteen incidents of injury to the staff, six of which had required emergency medical attention. He was now being treated with the highest degree of safety protocols, a few of which had been created after his arrival at the asylum. Whenever anyone was interacting with him, there was always a protective barrier between himself and the individual. Whenever he was moved to an alternative location or closer interaction was necessary, he was fully restrained, the restraints triple checked, and he was carted, mouth muzzled, to the secondary location. The only time he was ever given free reign was in his cell and in the secured common area.

After numerous attempts to find an outlet in which he could function with any degree of humanity, it was discovered that The Joker had no inclination of assaulting his fellow patients and, in fact, seemed to enjoy socializing with them. His occasional jokes at their expense were noted and documented, and he was kept separate from individuals who proved to be problematical.

But, after more than three months, Dr. Strange was liking what he saw in his patient. He was socializing and seemed to be making friends. He was beginning to be more open about himself, no longer ranting at length about the world and people and his fractured view of normality. He had already made several in-depth confessions about the poor state of affairs in his childhood home, the beatings, how his humor intrinsic inclinations were misinterpreted and denounced his entire life. He had lamented his pain and admitted that his behaviors were is only avenues for coping, that the relief he felt in his acts of violence were addictive and so ingrained that they were his only relief. He had stated that being so trapped was against his wishes, but no alternative existed to him but to be the cackling killer that he had been for so much of his life.

Dr. Strange clicked on his intercom and said to his assistant, the most recently interned psychotherapist who's name he hadn't bothered to learn yet, "Have Patient 13308 brought up to the interview partitions. I want to handle his weekly interview myself today."

"Right away, Dr. S," she said and clicked off.

In the time it took for the orderlies and security to transfer the patient, Dr. Strange finished up some paperwork, secured some medical equipment, and place a capped syringe of sedative in his lab coat pocket before heading down to interview the patient.

The interview partition in question was strictly for The Joker's use. It was completely bare, save for a comfortable leather couch and water fountain that had no moving parts, inlaid into the wall. He had already been released from his restrains into the partition before Dr. Strange had arrived. He was laid out on the couch, ankles crossed, his hands behind his head, his expression serene, contented to the nth degree.

Dr. Strange walked up to the line, indicating the length of the average arm. The partition was thick plastic, but there were regular holes within it, allowing the flow of air and sound. They were small enough that only a few fingers but certainly not a hand. Precautions were still necessary.

"Well, Mr. Joker," said Dr. Strange. "We have talked since-"

He flipped a page, searching for a date.

"Doctor!" cried a guard, and Dr. Strange looked up to see The Joker was now standing with his face nearly pressed to the glass, a sinister leer stretching his features, as close to Strange as he possibly could get, close enough and sudden enough that instinct took over.

Dr. Strange gave a brief cry, stumbling in his surprise, falling to one side and forward, nearly striking the partition's plastic. The fingers of The Joker snaked out and Dr. Strange's round-rimmed glasses were snatched off his face. With a second cry, he scrambled backward, as did The Joker, placing the glasses upon his face, magnifying his eyes.

"There," he said almost triumphantly. "That's much better!"

"Don't worry, Doctor," said the guard. "We'll get them back for you."

"No need," said Dr. Strange. "I keep a spare. He can do with them as he likes."

He turned to The Joker, "What is the point of such a display? Do you think to frighten me?"

"No," said The Joker, smiling over the rims of the glasses. "I succeed in frightening you."

"My point remains," said Dr. Strange. "We both know that you are aware your behavior is only an attempt to mask the pain of your existence. Only by giving up the behaviors that keep you from feeling and dealing with your personal pain will you ever be capable of moving forward."

The Joker returned to the couch, his fingers interlocked, the glasses' tints pronounced at its angle, obscuring his eyes further.

"I move forward every day, Doc," he said chuckling, "though I can see how it might not be obvious to you. Better and better, and everything is going splendidly."

"I am glad that you are proud of the progress you have been making," said Dr. Strange. "Would you care to elaborate on what you find most gratifying about your recent successes?"

"I am finding ways around my personal walls," said The Joker exuberantly. "I am working to get around the obstacles that keep me from what I want and who I want to be. It has been very good for me!"

"Very well," said Dr. Strange. "I hope it continues to be so for you. Is there anything about your time here that you find troublesome?"

The Joker turned in his side, cupping his mouth conspiratorially and saying with complete seriousness, "Between you and me, Doc, some the people here seem kind of crazy, completely nutty. They should be institutionalized or something."

Dr. Strange stared at him, then said, "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No, we've been over this," said The Joker in exasperation. "I'm succeeding! Do keep up."

He laughed loudly, rocking back and forth on his back, the glasses falling from his face, the couch thumping as he bucked, before finally, he turned to look at Dr. Strange, "I see crazy people everywhere. And none of them are locked up. Just the honest ones."

He giggled, and the guards visibly shivered at the sound of it.

Dr. Strange looked momentarily disconcerted but covered it well.

"Alright," he said, marking down his final notes, "I believe that is enough for today."

He knew when a patient was devolving, and he was prepared to head it off.

"We will talk again some other time."

The Joker rolled off the couch onto all fours and loped like a monkey over to the cart to be restrained. The guards unlocked the slats in the door and reached to the back of the cart, cinching the restraints tightly. After the muzzle was pulled into place, the two guards unlocked the partitioned room and wheeled him away.

Dr. Strange looked over his notes. He had written that from what he had seen, he could not be sure if The Joker was recovering or simply feigning emotional growth. He would have to check with the other physicians who were overseeing him for their opinions.

Finally, he walked into the partition, looking to recover his glasses. After a moment of searching around the couch, he found them. They were bent and broken, the couch having landed upon them in The Joker's fits of rocking laughter. The lens had been smashed from its frame, though a large piece appeared to be missing.

He turned to the camera in the upper right corner, affecting shock and horror. He ran out of the room, searching for the guards. He reached in his pocket for the syringe and found it empty. He met another guard coming down a side corridor.

"Quickly," he panted. "Joker."

The guard needed no other information. At last, they rounded the corner and stopped. The cart was standing upright, facing away from them. The two guards were on the floor. As they walked slowly forward, they found that the face-up guard had the syringe protruding from one eye, the plunger completely depressed. The second was lying in a pool of his own blood, large enough that his life was in danger. With a trembling hand, the guard turned the cart. It was empty, the restraints cut. In a trice, there was a long buzzer that sounded through the halls. And, as one, the door to every cell in Arkham opened.


	20. 20 - Escalation

"What are we going to do about this?" The Roman asked, mostly rhetorically. "How many dealers have we lost? Or rather, how many dealers haven't we lost?"

"We are down to our high rollers," said a young man, indicating the dealers that catered specifically to powerful, high profile clients. He was nervous considering it was the first time to ever be in the same room with The Roman and that he had no better news to give. "Even going through third-party gangs hasn't been helping. The GPD might as well be psychic."

"It's the Bat," said another at the table, another newcomer, slightly younger and greatly more impetuous. A wave of mumbling worked its way around the table. "Why haven't we taken care of that little problem?"

"Because," The Roman said, fingers steepled, "it isn't a little problem. No one can find him. He has found every tracker, slipped every tail. He has gotten the drop on every gunman, met ever hit man on their way into town. We are better off blowing up the whole damned city than trying to take him down."

"What a splendid idea!" came an all too familiar voice. The clown walked into the room, wearing his usual suit, though it was dirty and torn. One of his white gloves was missing the tip of one finger. His hair was mussed and the dye was almost gone. Though his face was its usual white and red lips had been added to his makeup routine, it was hastily applied and made his visage more unsettling and morose.

"I thought you was in that nut house," said one of the older bosses, indigent jowls akimbo.

The Joker turned slowly to the man, a maddeningly still smile etched into his face, "Early release. They let me out on bad behavior."

The bosses shifted anxiously.

"Now, I know what you are all thinking," he went on, his voice and arms sweeping in grand gestures, "what is the deranged psychopath going to do to us? Well, you'll be glad to hear that I have no intention of turning this into a bloody massacre."

His hand whipped out from behind him, a revolver coming up to bare and firing, taking a large chunk out of the corner of the chair of the boss who had spoken up.

"Not unless I have to," he simpered, his voice rich with malevolence.

He put away the gun and his grand mood returned, "I am so glad to be back out, out on the streets, doing what I do best. I had a lot of time to think, got lots of therapy, and learned a lot. But all of that was getting ready for the outside."

He took his spot on the table once again, as he had before, and The Roman interlocked his fingers.

"Our city is changing, my dear fellows, and not for the better. Cops can't be bought and are good at their jobs. There is a giant bat terrorizing us decent folk for crying out loud! The gangs are eating up your territory when it isn't being reclaimed by the drab, boring citizens of Gotham. All your dealers are being picked up, all your bosses are being taken out of play, one way or another. Soon, you are going to be extinct."

"What are you supposing we should do about it?" asked The Roman, the bosses leaning away, so abnormal was even this subtle display of frustration.

"Change with the times, friends!" crowed the killer clown. "Gotham needs, neigh, deserves a new class of criminal, one that keeps with the trends, one that can stand up against honest cops and flying bats."

The doors opened and in they came. Some were obvious escapees from Arkham, a few still wearing the gowns and jumpsuits they wore on the inside. Some wore strange clothing, like an old fashion tuxedo or gunmetal black skull-like mask. Others wore their insanity in their flesh, in the form of tally mark scars or skin disorders that resemble reptile scales. All of them were armed, with weapons ranging from fist and scalpels to guns and knives to mallets and umbrellas.

"What is this?" one boss asked, his face white. "I thought you said this wasn't going to be a massacre."

The Joker strolled towards the head of the table, "One death is hardly a massacre."

The Roman stood, his large chair shifting back. The gun was only halfway turned to aim when the umbrella went off with a blast of shotgun pellets. The blast caught The Roman in the jaw and neck, cutting him apart.

"Oops," said The Joker, leaning to one side and catching what remained of The Roman's head, little more than exposed skull and gore that dripped in strings between his white-clad fingers. Holding the skull at length, his other hand held dramatically to his chest, he proclaimed, "Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio."

Screaming with laughter, he kicked the slumping body away from the chair and landed, lounging, sideways in it, tossing the head lazily over one shoulder.

"Now, for the rest of you," he said, removing his soiled gloves and slapping them down on the corpse at the foot of the chair, "I am willing to offer you retirement. Turn your followers over to me, and you can live out your days as long as I never see or hear of any of you ever again. Otherwise..."

The insane laughed with anticipation.

The bosses looked around, all acquiescing.

"Marvelous!" cried The Joker. "Let's have some fun!"

Gotham Centennial Square was one of the major hubs of the city. Marked by a number of shopping centers and office complexes, it proved to be a major daily financial boon for the city. It was spacious, open, hugged by buildings that were spaced enough to feel protective without feeling looming. It was this characteristic that made the riot feel so unexpected.

It was barely a couple of hours after dusk, and while most commuters already at home, the streets and sidewalks were well-trafficked by those with a bustling nightlife. At first, no one saw them, for there was nothing to see. They looked like average people, general pedestrians, people with no unusual feature or clothing. Then, the masks came out.

It was slow, unobtrusive. They slipped from under hoods, up from collars, out of pockets. Some were the run of the mill Halloween masks, but most were clowns. As soon as they were in place, as though all receive a signal at once, all hell broke loose.

A cry seemed to fill the air, part laughter, part wail, unnerving and disorienting. Unwary people were shoved from the sidewalk into the streets. Within moments, there were countless wrecks and injuries, the crowd suddenly in hysterics as the rioters began running them down, throwing them into anything and everything; cars, newspaper stands, lap posts, storefronts, plant life, even each other.

It was a game, a romp, harsh and unforgiving, and becoming more deadly by the second. Baseball bats and tire irons worked themselves into the fray, and soon the rioters' vocalizations were punctuated by the cries and screams of the injured, as were the thuds and cracks of impact and breaking bones.

The police began to arrive, a patrol car at a time, first responders who had not to go on about the state of the square save for scared civilians. They were beset immediately and without warning, dragged from their cars as quickly as they prepared to exit. Most were beaten within an inch of their life, and all were stripped of their gear and their weapons.

The rioter began corralling the crowd, working them to the square proper, hedging them in from all sides. They didn't realize it until it was too late, and they were trapped. Many worked the crowd, dealing grizzly hurts to those who resisted the hardest. Those that weren't controlling the hostages were preparing for the police.

Word seemed to have reached the GPD as to what was happening to their officers. The next wave kept their distance, which in no way protected them from the Molotov cocktails that rained down upon their cars. They were forced further back, and in the meantime, fires started in every major business around the square.

It was then that he showed. Every single wireless and cellphone network in the area went down. Hand-held devices shorted out. The whole block went suddenly dark, the electricity cut. By the light of the fires, only a few saw him arc out of the night and land in the square, but they soon lost track of him among the throng.

The rioters were not so prepared. The darkness was not extreme, but between the dancing light of the fires and the mob running in any direction they could think off, it was hard to make out any detail passed the masks. They were expecting scare tactics and misdirection on an individual scale. They were not expecting such massive disarray and a full-on frontal assault.

He launched himself out of the crowd, suddenly and landing a half dozen blows before his opponents realized they were in a fight. He took out individuals and small groups first, sweeping across the square efficiently and professionally. As the numbers of rioters began to dwindle and only larger groups remained, they began to organize, but so did the GPD.

The rioters were forced to divide their numbers even further. Some readied to handle the cops, some to maintain crowd control, and the last to find and fight The Bat. The police proved hard to manage. They came forth with fire hoses, proving as capable at putting out the fires the rioters had started as they were at handling the rioters themselves. Crowd control was becoming harder. With less personnel to keep things in line, the crowd began to bolt. They moved away from the fire hoses, though that seemed to be by design. They were met by officers on foot at the far end of the square, ensuring the right people got to medics or arrested, as needed. Those who sought out The Bat got what they want, and promptly were taken out of play.

By the time the rioters realized they were lost, the riot police were amassed in force. They swept the square in three directions, pulling the last of the rioters out of play as well as retrieving a large number of unconscious ones, yet found no other evidence of the vigilante.

The riot in Centennial Square rocked the city. While most news organizations called the police response successful and well organized, those who moved in political and financial circles could see the blow for what it was; with a relatively small group of personnel, some masks, a few bottles of incendiary, and a little planning, several businesses that were responsible for a sizable chunk of Gotham's daily income were burned beyond the ability to do business for quite some time, a large number of citizens had been put in financier straits due to injury or were otherwise terrified, and one of the city's longest standing landmarks had been defaced.

"It's going to happen again, Alfred," said Bruce, still in the Bat-suit, all but his cowl and gauntlets, which was set beside the massive computer terminal. He watched as a video depicted Superman carrying a woman in one hand and a helicopter in the other, flying down a city street towards a hospital.

"The riots, sir?" asked Pennyworth, setting down the tray with the Master meal before he took his rest.

"Yes," said Bruce. "This escalation will need to be maintained by them. They are fighting the status quo, and they know it. If they are lacks, the advancing societal steamroller will just bowl them over. I know how to fight crime, but this is different, more chaotic, more destructive. I can't account for every detail, every possibility."

Pennyworth thought about trying to anticipate the actions of a notorious, nefarious madman. He didn't like the Master's odds, "What will you do, sir?"

Bruce nodded, steepling his index fingers while the rest entwined, "Keeping the right frame of mind. No one can account for every variable, no matter how many statistics and psych evals they read. But what he wants is simple; he wants power. Or, more aptly, to feel powerful. Destabilizing a city, putting fear in the minds and hearts of as many people as he can, increasing the meaning and knowledge of his moniker, gathering like-minded individuals to him, taking lives, all will give him a sense of power. And power is just a drug. An addict is much easier to predict than a psychopath."

"Still no luck in tracking him down, sir?" Pennyworth asked, using nonverbal cues to remind the Master of the meal.

"None," said Bruce, bringing up the search on one of his peripheral screens. "He hasn't been anywhere where a networked camera could make an ID, even after I started keeping records of cameras that usually don't record, allowing for further analyses. I have widened the search to include several patients from Arkham, but so far, only a few false positives from partial images. Nothing more."

"Any ideas, sir?" asked Pennyworth, stepping back.

"More than I could easily convey," he said, finally eating some of the food at his elbow. "He's likely just using gofers."

Pennyworth blink.

"Go for this, go for that," Bruce clarified. "It is an easy enough tactic. But, from the men that have been interrogated thus far, none have had direct contact with The Joker. All the men they have talked to were dispatched by secondaries, with no methods of contacting anyone up the chain. They do what they are told, for the same reason The Joker does; for power. But, if you do what you're told without knowing why, and again twice removed from the plan's creator, it is nearly impossible to track down all the cogs and see the bigger picture without the ringleader."

Pennyworth nodded, familiar with the tactic, "Have you tried a reverse trace using misinformation, sir?"

Bruce turned in his chair, facing Pennyworth fully, "Explain."

"The lower tier individuals function in total autonomy and anonymity. Introduce misinformation into that network in great enough quantity and regularity, and the upper echelons will try to route it out. Follow the information you plant, wait for someone to come looking for the source. Follow the individual up to the next tier, then repeat."

Bruce nodded, his eyes becoming distant as he focused all energy upon his thoughts. Finally, he turned back to his computer and began running several information searches, "That will be all, Alfred."

"Very good, sir," said Pennyworth and retired.

Bruce was done in under an hour. Doing a trace on the men who had been caught and establishing their locations over time via cell phone towers and triangulation, he was about to establish a five-block area of high probability. He had called the various watering holes in those areas, asking for a Matches Malone. Naturally, he wasn't there. He made sure that the local cameras around each establishment were recording, and looked over the stage makeup he had acquired for just such an event. He decided on a mustache, some gray in his temples, brown contacts, and a few minor prosthetics, just to change the ridge of his nose and the angle of his chin. After everything was in place and ready for the following evening, he finished what of the meal he could stomach, and turn in for the night.

Lying upon his bed, waiting for sleep to take him, he wondered what it would be like to fly.


	21. 21 - Correlations

Bruce walked into the bar with a scowl on his face and a matchstick between his teeth like a toothpick. He had frequented a different bar at irregular intervals, three a night, for over a week. He had called bars he wasn't currently at, asking for Matches Malone regularly. He hustled pool, asked the bartenders for messages, and gave every outward appearance that he was killing time, waiting. As he walked in and sat at the bar, the bartender recognized him.

"Hey, Matches," he said, cleaning a mug and eying the billiards. "I gotta ask; what's your deal? You've been in here every night for almost two weeks."

Bruce grunted, culling the desire to correct him, continuing to play the part. He leaned on his elbows, conspiratorially, "I have a friend, see? He was talking to me about a job. He works odd jobs, in a no-names sorta way. He says that if he should ever get pinched or disappeared, I should hang out around these parts, wait for word from the circus."

"The circus?" asked the Bartender, loud in his surprise.

"Hey, hey," says Bruce, looking around as though afraid of being overheard. "Keep your voice down, will ya? I know, it don't make no kinda sense, but I know how to do like I'm told."

The bartender nodded, setting the glass in its rack, "I got you, Matches. You are a straight shooter, in pool shots and talk. I'll keep an ear out for you."

Bruce nodded too, "Much appreciated."

"Hey!" someone called over the noise of the bar. "I'm looking for a Matches Malone. He here?"

Bruce turned with an icy coolness to look at the newcomer. For a moment, he thought about his missing digital AR interface that would allow him to identify individuals by facial recognition, but he dismissed the feeling of dependence. He had to be prepared, whether he had the most cutting-edge digital arsenal or some makeup and a box of matches.

"Who wants to know?" he asked, his voice firm but not impetuous.

The newcomer had a long face with a longer nose, his cheekbones gaunt and pronounced. His eyes were large and his mussed hair under his hat was a mousey brown.

He walked closer and said in a voice that didn't carry, "I hear you think we should be looking for you."

Bruce furrowed his brow, "Should you? Are you from the circus?"

The man looked at him like he wasn't funny, "Who contacted you about us?"

Bruce raised his eyebrows, "I'm not in the habit of picking up names. Knowing names makes it easier not to drop them."

"You seem to drop yours easy enough," the man said. "It took me less than an hour to find you."

"Wasn't exactly hiding," said Bruce before his expression became incredulous and he said, "You think my first name is Matches?"

The man snorted, "Come with me."

Bruce stood, weary, "I ain't got no reason to follow you. My guy vanished. I had assurances he was on the level. I don't know you."

The man turned, his look hard, "Hey, buddy. I don't know you from Eve. You could be a cop for all I know. But we'll see. If you're on the up and up, maybe we have something you could do for us."

Bruce walked out with him. They turned down an alley and came out in a darkened parking lot. There was a gray van, without decals and unextraordinary, windows tinted. The side panel door opened, and two men got out. The first was a common thug. The other wouldn't have been about to fit anywhere but the back, only able to get through the largest door.

The man pushed himself out and stood more than seven feet tall. He loomed over Bruce, who did his best to look surprised and shaken. He had studied the Arkham files thoroughly, and it was hard to miss Waylon Jones.

"What do you think, Croc?" asked the first man. "You smelt him before."

Jones breathed deep, "You don't smell like a cop. You don't even own a gun. You sure smell like alcohol and fire though. Arsonist?"

Bruce smiled, a special little smile, "Yeah. That's me. Did he say you were a crock of?"

"Croc," said the first man. "As in crocodile."

Jones leaned forward out of the shadow made by the brim of the hat he had on. His eyes were unmistakable reptilian, his nose flat, his wide mouth jammed full of sharp undeniably inhuman teeth. Bruce rocked back mentally. This was not a simple skin disorder as his files claimed. Something else was going on here, something unusual.

"So, Malone," said Jones said, his raspy voice slithering around his mouth. "Why are you looking for us?"

"I'm not," said Bruce. "I was told you would be looking for me."

"Why?" asked Jones, his tone hard.

Bruce shrugged, "Didn't ask. I do a good trade and enjoy my work. Heard there might be a job, pro bono like. I got a little put away for a while, so it's no biggie. I like fun, and this sounds like fun."

"You don't want to know what this is about?" asked Jones.

"Again," Bruce shrugged, "So long as I get to do what I do, I don't rightly care."

Jones' snap was unbelievably fast. Bruce was faster. He managed to get his arm between the teeth and his throat. The minimal armor he wore was not enough to stop all the force, and he felt the sting of lacerations. Before Bruce could consider the best way to maintain his cover, he took a blow to his gut, using all the skill and training he had to soak as much of the force as he could into his muscles. The armor was able to do the rest. Still, he was thrown way back, his arm almost tearing, his body skipping and skidding across to a dark corner of the parking lot.

"Kill him!" Jones rasped, and the two men were joined by a third from the van. In time with Bruce, all four withdrew projectile weapons. As the bullets flew at Bruce, at least one being soaked by his armor, he fired the dart gun.

Jones sneered as he looked the small dart in his chest. Withdrawing it, he crushed it like it was of paper and cast the remains away. Bruce withdrew a grapple with his off hand and fired, sailing upward to the roof using his belt that was hidden beneath his shirt.

"How did you know he was a plant?" Bruce heard, using the small directional mic he pulled out once he was safely away.

"He was wearing latex on his face," said Jones, wiping his nose and smearing away what little blood was left from his mouth. "Besides, he kept saying he didn't care what the plan was. You don't keep saying that unless you really want to know."

Bruce had been ready to get away since Jones arrived. He wasn't sure it would be Jones, but having a dart on hand that administered a subdermal tracking device was likely going to be crucial to his mission.

"Did we get him?" said one of the men.

Bruce took out a small camera and snapped a few digital pictures. He would scan the images at the cave and see if he could work out identities and add them to the scanners.

"He ain't moving down there," said Jones. "Go check it out."

The men did as they were told.

"He's gone!" one finally called back. "We didn't hit him. No blood."

"It was him," said Jones. "Damn. At first, I thought it might be some new wannabe cop trying something screwy! Where did he go?!"

"Maybe he flew away," said one thug.

Jones snorted, "I'll believe he can fly when I see it. He's just a man."

They searched to area thoroughly, finding no sign of Bruce. Without a backward glance, they hopped into the van. Before they could drive away, Bruce fired one more tracker into the bumper, as insurance.

Once the scene was clear, he hugged the shadows, sliding over the edge of the building and down. Once on the ground, he surveyed the scene himself, carefully, until he finally found what he was looking for. Putting the needle that had punctured Jones, he placed it in the only vial he had on him. Then, using a mini black light and colored lens, he sprayed down all biological spills that might have been his blood in the area with ammonia before heading back to the economy class car he was driving and returned to the cave.

His first task was Jones' blood. Taking all that he could from the thick needle, he set up the sample for analysis before returning to the computer terminal.

Next, he tagged the two trackers, labeling their ID numbers with what they were, the van and Jones respectively, and the computer began drawing deductions and filing information about each, likely occurrence and explanation for changes and unexpected changes in the tracker's behavior over time.

And finally, he went back to his searching algorithms. To his surprise, the computer had been up to more than he had expected. It had made little progress in identifying individuals who were likely correspondents of The Joker, through no fault of its own, but it had autonomously followed a few unusual patterns, which had led it outside of Gotham, to Metropolis of all places. But after looking at the project's data, he went from annoyed to wary.

The activity that his computer had found was incredibly suspect. An entire fleet of disposable cellphones was being bought, not for their minutes, but their texting abilities. The texts that were being sent were odd, some form of encryption or code that was both simple enough that no computing power was necessary to form the code, yet complex enough that simple decrypts, such as a one to one cipher, were not enough to sort it out.

Bruce also found entire redundant and automated computer programs, sending and receiving identical information. However, the systems were outputting to a fairly large number of phones that were not disposable. They belonged to individuals with long rap sheets, everything from dealing to theft to vandalism to more sinister acts of violence.

Bruce frowned. He was missing something, and he wasn't sure what it was. He had never heard of a criminal organization using tactics like this within the US. He tried to reason why a criminal organization would radically shift tactics in such a way when it all clicked.

Superman. His abilities had never been disclosed to the public, but given Bruce's personal research and the patterns that Superman operated under, he likely had some sort of superhuman auditory sense. The notion of never speaking as a deterrent made complete sense.

Bruce realized that they were both facing the same issues; now that Batman and Superman were operating, criminals were escalating, trying to subvert them, match their influence or their ability by any means they had. He didn't know how to feel about being grouped together with the likes of Superman.

"Master Wayne," came Pennyworth's voice into the quiet cave. "Is everything alright, sir?"

Bruce turned in his chair so that he could speak over his shoulder, "Just sorting my thoughts, Alfred. I'm fine."

Pennyworth walked further into the open space, "With regards to what, sir?"

Bruce found himself put out with his keeper, but managed to suppress his grimace, instead replying, "It appears that Superman and I are facing opponents with similar characteristics."

Pennyworth paused as though waiting for more, then said, "I see, sir. What would you purpose doing about it?"

Bruce stood, pushing his chair back. Tapping a few buttons, his keyboards shifted up to the appropriate height to be typed on comfortably while standing. Hitting the proper keys, the clearest image of Superman filled the large monitor before Bruce. The man dressed in blue, cape billowing, was holding a car above his head.

"This is Superman, Alfred," Bruce said, his voice calm, even. "What do you see when you look at him?"

Pennyworth consider.

"I see," he said, "a man for whom the term human does and does not apply, a hero and symbol, but ultimately, an unknown commodity."

"I disagree," said Bruce. "If he truly is what he appears to be, he is the most powerful being currently in known existence. While his motives were suspect to some initially, he has proven himself more than capable of the responsibilities of a hero. But, every time I look at him, what I see is everything that he is that I lack."

"You mustn't look at it in that way, Master Wayne," Pennyworth said. "Your means and abilities are far greater than-"

"No, Alfred," said Bruce. "I do not mean it self-deprecatingly. I kind of wish that I did. At least that might be a problem I could solve with a little perspective. But this, how I see it; I see him as a tool, a means to an end. Meeting him, interacting with him, even possibly working beside him; I see the calculations, the machinations, the logic of it. I see him as an extension of my will, someone to influence, to use to my own ends, however noble. And while that in and of itself is merely worrying, the truly troubling fact is that it is the most direct and efficient method I know to do what is morally right and I see nothing wrong with doing so."

Pennyworth nodded, "You believe that you should find this perspective distasteful and you do not."

"Precisely," said Bruce. "I understand my methods. I have been through them time and time again. I have spent hours questioning every decision that I make, and in the end, I know what I am doing helps. Not noticeably within a narrow span of time, and not as much as I would like, but I am preventing crime, saving this city by inches. But if anyone was to simply consider my actions, how am I any more lawful and unselfish than any other criminal out there? I must be as ruthless and uncompromising as any of them in order to do what I do the best way I can conceive of. How can I associate myself with someone who is uncompromisingly moral in action as well as to deed? What right do I have to be grouped with someone who is the most humane person that I know of, and yet is viewed by me so impersonally? Who can say that what I do is worth as much as the actions of such a man?"

Pennyworth said nothing for a long moment, then as though making a choice that he had been putting off for far too long, he said, his voice echoing in the large chasm, "I can."

Bruce turned, looking briefly over Pennyworth, his eyes hidden behind the digital viewports of his cowl.

"I have watched you since the day you were born," said Pennyworth, "and watched over you since the day your parents charged me with your guardianship. Every step you have taken, you have done so as only you could, and with no other, no better alternative. You are a champion, Master Bruce, a hero if ever there was one. I have led a privileged life to be at your side, even if only in servitude. If your parents were here, I have no doubt that they would be proud of the man you have become. Of course, you have the right to stand with heroes. Where else would you stand, sir?"


	22. 22 - Steel

Everything was in place. The data had been gathered as well as it currently could be. The research had been done. All that was left to do now was to act.

Bruce had decided to maintain his anonymity, and while he had no idea whether Superman's abilities were visual as well as auditory, he needed to find a method for disguise himself in that eventuality. Upon looking into such a substance, Fox was able to find something even better. He discovered a substance that's production had been patented and sold to LexCorp, one of WayneTech's main competitors. The substance was so accomplished at energy absorption, it absorbed sound waves as well as a number of ranges in the electromagnetic spectrum. It was a long and involved process, but Fox was convinced that he might be able to replicate the material, maybe even retrofit the uniform to incorporate it. It was expensive, and while Bruce gave him his blessing to work on the project, he first instructed Lucius to make him a new cowl in which the face would be lined with the miracle material.

Along with this piece of identity protection, Bruce knew that this encounter required a certain degree of theatricality. To that end, he finished his project with Lucius of manufacturing an electric turbine that he could use for flight. They were able to fashion a crude one pilot craft, one that Bruce could call to pick him up and transport him as necessary. The prospect of such a vehicle had been considered and incorporated into the cave's design. It was ready, standing by to be called, the computer hardwired in and running an advanced autopilot program.

Finally, the last piece was ready; the invitation. Bruce began keeping tabs on a group young men who were adamant about being the first to capture the first images of The Bat. They had even rigged up a rather ingenious method of ensuring that an EMP device could not wipe the camera, as was Bruce's usual practice whenever he was doing his work. After monitored them for a few nights, looking for an opportunity, one finally presented itself.

Two recent gangs that had come to power, the Clowns and the Masks, were fighting for territory in the area for weeks. As the Clowns tried to break up a drug deal and make off with the drugs and the payment, Bruce made his move.

Using zip cuffs, sleeper holds, and stealth tactics, he was able to work his way around two flanks of the opposing forces, cutting the numbers of both in half before his presence was noted by way of the unconscious men and women he left behind. From there, he switched to misdirection and precision takedowns, intercut with power attacks placed for maximum demoralizing effect. The mop-up was fast, even by his own standards, and once he had verified that the incident had been logged into dispatch through his computer, he was ready for his internet debut.

He went through the motions, destroying the camera and scaring the young men fiercely before disappearing into the night. He waited twenty hours, approximately, figuring that would be enough. Positioning himself at the top of Wayne Tower, readying himself. He waited considerable shorter than he was prepared to when it happened; the alert he was expecting. The WayneTech satellite he had repurposed for his personal use had picked up the fast moving object leaving Metropolis airspace, heading towards Gotham at an unbelievable speed. He had just enough time to disable the alert before the arrival.

He was suddenly there, hanging in the air, his poise full of an inherent strength and confident assurance. It was as though an image had been changed on the screen of reality and he was there with no other indication, not a rush of wind or a single sound. One moment he wasn't there, and the next, he was. He said nothing, and in the prolonged silence, Bruce was able to get his first conclusive scan of Superman.

The first most noticeable detail Bruce observed was his thermal output. Aside from being definitively above normal body temperature for humans, his body temp was almost unnaturally uniform. The directional mic picked up his heart rate which was very deep and evenly spaced. His suits biometric output had him labeled as comatose and feverish.

But what finally put Bruce at ease was the truth, or rather, that he was finally sure that Superman was telling it; he was flying by no means known by human knowledge. No heat exhaust, no thrust of any kind, no evidence of technology upon his person, no harness or rigging.

"I thought that we might take this opportunity to meet," Superman said, his words and tones steady, his eyes unwavering. "It looks like you had a similar idea."

Bruce did a final rundown in his head, calculating probably conversations, the directions the social dynamics could take, the potential frictions. At last, he chose his opening statement, "You're an alien."

If the statement phased him, Superman hid it well. He gave no indication of distaste or defensiveness, just looked over Bruce with a degree of wariness as he said, "I believe that there was a newspaper article to that effect."

"People lie," Bruce said, knowing that Superman knew that perhaps better than anyone else he knew, but it seemed necessary to at least be clear about his own thoughts. "Evidence can be fabricated, data altered. But you aren't human, and your abilities aren't a clever trick or technological artifice. My sensors don't lie. For all intents and purposes, you have been honest so far."

There was a very definitive flash of surprise across Superman's face, "You let the video get leaked. You lead me here."

Bruce wasn't sure what his reaction to this news would be. He hadn't expected it to come out quite this soon, but he was in no way apologetic, so keeping himself from reacting was easy enough. But, something changed; there was a subtle shift in Superman's expression, as though a level of acceptance suddenly crossed him, effortlessly, as though without a thought, he saw what Bruce had done and left his own ego out of it. He didn't cast blame or demand responsibility or insist that Bruce should adhere to his values and morality. After first, Bruce found it harder to hide his surprise, but within in a breath, did so with ease.

"You could have just asked," Superman said, his tone suddenly lighter as he landed upon the roof, his tone almost hinting at friendly exasperation.

Bruce's tone did not change, still as uncompromising as Batman needed to be, "You could have said no."

Superman wasn't taken aback, but he did appear to take a moment to reassess, looking Bruce over. When he spoke, Bruce got the idea that his words were an olive branch of sorts, "You are unafraid. Brave. You are strong for a human, somewhere between a gymnast, a soldier, a martial artist and a bodybuilder. You have been injured many times. I count twenty-three healed fractures, not including any that might be in your face, seven major soft tissue injuries that are less than a year old, eleven scars from cut or stab wounds, what looks like a large animal bite and two old bullet wounds. It is obvious that you have been working at this for years. I can't even calculate the cost of the technology on your person. The time, the expense; why are you doing all this?"

Bruce fought the urge to breathe deeply. Superman was showing a degree of thought and interest that none but a few had every shown Bruce and the first to do so without even knowing him. He not only accepted Bruce for his radical choices and his outlandish designs but wanted to know why, to understand him, to empathize with him. Bruce felt something within him shift, and pain that he had not felt in years washed over him and was quickly squelched.

He took a slow breath, measure each of his words and said them without a single drop of the remorse he felt, "I made a promise, a long time ago. And I am going to keep that promise."

Superman took that in, and, as Bruce was coming to understand that he always would, accepted it. Thinking a moment, the man in blue asked, "Why did you bring me here? There must have been a reason."

Bruce considered his words carefully once again as he looked out over Gotham. The city had provided him so much and had taken so much away. He was doing everything within his power to make sure that the same never happened to another person again. But, the world was a much bigger place. He knew that he could do a lot, but he couldn't do it all. If ever he was going to choose someone to work with him, he could never pick someone worthier than the man standing before him. But there was no way in hell Bruce would ever tell him that. He stepped forward and took a stance near the edge of the roof, his placement an invitation, a nonverbal cue to get the ball rolling and solidly place him in control of the conversation.

"I brought you here to warn you," said Bruce, knowing that his best method here would the carrot and that if he used a subtle and simple hand, either the Man of Steel would not notice, or would not care that it was being done. "I have information that you need, important information, about what is going on in your city and what is going on in my city and the world."

And, as expected, Superman stepped forward as Bruce had done, stood beside him, his stance mirroring Bruce as he said, "I'm listening."

"First, something has been going on in Metropolis," Bruce said, turning to face him. "I haven't gotten a fix on what it is exactly, but there appears to be a criminal organization that is trying to figure out how to subvert you with technology. They are using burner phones and codes, never speaking aloud when forming plans. From what I can tell, they are working their system hard; using programs to organize their drug rings and deliveries, contracting violent behaviors to local gangs or subverted third parties."

"The bank robbers," Superman said, the revelation of knowledge clear on his face. "They attempted to use hostages to rob a series of banks."

Bruce's mind flashed back to one of the recent crimes he was able to trace to them while he was making preparations for this meeting. The operation in question had been a series of banks, the latter of which had been infiltrated by civilians whose loved ones had been put under duress.

"That was one of their operations," said Bruce, keeping his tone professional despite the distaste he felt. "I am still putting the pieces together, figuring out what their aims are. Though they are well organized, they are only moderately creative. It will only be a matter of time."

Superman's face became unabashedly grateful.

"Thank you," he said, his tone plain. "The other?"

Bruce felt his thoughts weigh him down, centering him in the moment. His task was a heavy burden that he was ready and prepared for.

"It's escalating out here," he said. "The criminals in my city are changing. Some are using theatrics and costumes to inspire fear, but others have started displaying abilities. Metahuman seems to be the term used most by those in the know, and they are appearing more and more, all over the world. There may be more of us in the future, those with the powers and the abilities to help those who cannot help themselves. And, there will be others, individuals who will use what they can do to their own ends. You should be mindful and prepared."

Superman looked troubled, as though he knew what trouble that information might mean. He seemed to plant his proverbial feet and nodded.

"Again," said Superman, breath deeply, "Thank you."

Bruce had played it to the hilt, as he had intended. Without unnecessary movement, he called the plane. Turning, he stepped to the very edge of the roof, his tone turning hard, "One more thing; this is my city. You can come here to contact me, but otherwise, stay out of it."

He didn't want anyone's help. If criminals here began to think he couldn't get the job done without some Super help, he would never be taken seriously again.

Superman crossed his arms, the apprehension in his face replaced by a subtle determination; he was not happy having to say what needed to be said, not because he didn't want to carry them out, but almost as though he wanted to live in a world in which such words were unnecessary.

"I understand that I have no right to make your decisions for you," Superman said, "but I will let you know, if your actions become contrary to what is in the best interest of the people, in your city or out of it, I will stop you."

Bruce understood completely. With less energy spent than on an errant thought, he took up his grapple and aimed skyward at the appropriate again, "If I ever do, I would want you to."

Superman look shocked, completely surprised by his response. Before he could reply, the plane passed and intersected the grapple, pulling Bruce up into the night.

As Bruce managed to pull himself into the plane, he shifted his shoulder, knowing that he would have to ice it before taking his sleep that night. He gave absolutely no outward sign as his thoughts trembled through him. For a moment, he could see back through time, could hear the shots that ended his parents' lives, and knew, without a doubt in his mind, that had time been shifted, he would have had three men with him at the vigil over his parents being laid to rest. The smallest amount of conceivable pain eased. It was nothing when compared to the whole, but it was not nothing. For the first time in his life, Bruce thought that he might have found someone who could be a true friend.


	23. 23 - Takeover

Bruce scrolled briefly through the small tablet, frustrated by how brief it actually was. The information he had compiled about Intergang was, for lack of a better term, complete. There was nothing more that could be added without involve on-site investigation or satellite surveillance. Unfortunately, he wouldn't have a repurposed satellite in orbit for another month, and he couldn't justify holding on to the information he had for that long, especially since he had no guarantee on a time frame once the satellite was operational. Placing the tablet into the UAV on the seat next to him, he closed it before picking up his personal tablet.

The tablet, like the smaller version now within the UAV that would be taking it to Metropolis and to Superman, had the ability to scan facial features. However, this tablet had the added benefit of needing filtering contacts to see clearly, contacts that Bruce was currently wearing.

The report before him was a promising one. The Batwing had proven to be not cost-effective in its current version. Having delegated it to be used as last resort, a new solution was underway. The reports showed that the first prototype for a ground vehicle was finished and would be available for field testing.

Scrolling to the next report, Bruce found that the tracker on Jones had in fact decayed, but not before revealing a few possible locations for him to investigate. They were all underground, literally, and would take some research before he would set out. In the interim, he had business to attend to.

Pennyworth dropped him off at Wayne Tower, and unlike his usual trips to the Tower, he was dressed to impress in a new, fully customized business suit that cost five figures. He turned heads, though he gave no indication that he noticed, as he entered the building. The guard at the front desk punching numbers and speaking first into the headset and then into his shoulder radio before walking briskly to catch up and then keep pace with Bruce.

"Mister Wayne," he said, more professional than more CEO secretaries, "good morning, sir. We didn't have you on the books for a visit today, sir. Is there anything I can do for you while you are here?"

Bruce smiled and clapped an arm around the guard's shoulders with comradely gusto.

"Hey, man," he said, not bothering to glance at the guard's name tag, which he already knew was Tabor. "I'm here to speak with Mr. Earle. Awesome shoes! Do you run?"

"Yes, sir," said Tabor, not missing a beat. "Every day. Speak to Mr. Earle about what?"

Tabor was just as his file said; direct, self-possessed, even-tempered.

Bruce shook his hand, "Good man! Good man! It's the three things we do better than any other animal in the world; working with our hands, thinking, and endurance running. Never neglect any of them!"

The express elevator was at the ground floor, and as the doors opened, Bruce stopped Tabor before he could enter after him.

"I am not the president," Bruce said, his casual manner and roguish swagger at odds with his suit. "I'm quite sure I can find the way up on my own. Thanks, man!"

The ride was decidedly a quick one, but Bruce had one stop to make. Lucius's head came up as he entered.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Wayne?" he asked, smiling.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, "I need a thug."

Lucius laughed, "I suppose I can oblige. Who are we intimidating?"

"Earle," Bruce said, his voice flat and his face deadpan.

"Ooh," Lucius said, "in that case, it will be my pleasure."

The rest of the trip was made in silent anticipation. Twenty-two minutes later, Mr. Earle walked into the boardroom with two lawyers and a corporate representative from another company in tow to find Bruce sitting at the head of the table, feet up, hands behind his head, Lucius standing beside him, thug like.

"Mr. Wayne," said Earle. "This is an interesting surprise. I thought I had let my secretary know that you were to wait in my waiting room."

"Oh, don't blame Brandy," said Bruce standing up. "She was quite insistent. At first."

Earle attempted to recover himself, "Bruce Wayne, I'd like you to meet Mercy Graves, who is facilitating our LexCorp contracts."

"Ah," Bruce said, shaking hands. Graves was built more like security than a suit, despite the tasteful business dress suit.

"It is a good thing you are here," said Bruce. "I have business with Mr. Earle before your contracts can be discussed."

"What sort of business?" asked Earle, starting to sound a bit frustrated.

Bruce rested his palms on the back of one of the boardroom's swivel chairs, "I'm calling on the Wayne emergency powers policy in the company's bylaws. If I can show reasonably that the board is making decisions that are unlawful or contrary to company marked ethics, I, as the foremost living Wayne, can replace up to forty-nine percent of the board."

"You can't do that," said Earle, still keeping his cool. "You're not a Wayne Enterprise Employee. To be capable of enforcing those bylaws, you need to have been an employee here for at least two years."

"That's true," Bruce said, then turn, "Lucius, how long have I been working with you in Applied Sciences?"

Lucius checked his pocket watch, "Now that you mention it, Mr. Wayne, two years, to the day."

"Oh," Bruce said, turning to Earle, mock surprise on his face. "Imagine that."

Earle was no longer so good at hiding his frustration, "What are you playing at, Bruce?"

"Please, Mr. Earle," Bruce said companionably, "let's keep this professional. This is about Kaznia."

Bruce withdrew a clicker from his pocket and, instantly, the boardroom's presentation board lit up with images as he described them.

"Militant terrorists out of Kaznia have been using sonic-cone rifles, assault weapons created by LexCorp."

Graves looked suddenly less than happy, "Just what are you prepared to accuse-?"

Bruce raised a hand, "Nothing. I'm not accusing anyone of anything who doesn't work for this company. Unfortunately, I think you will find that the material and components that we sold to you, as one of our former contracts, were used in the construction of the aforementioned assault rifle, which means..."

Earle slowly closed his eyes, "Which means that Wayne Enterprises was not only a contributor in weapons manufacturing, it was a contributor to terrorism."

"Which means, sadly," Bruce said, turning to Graves, "we will no longer be doing business with you, in any capacity, other than in buyout."

Earle looked daggers at Graves, "You... let this happen."

"No, Mr. Earle," Bruce said. "She's not a board member. And don't worry, I won't be replacing just under half of them. Just two."

Earle took a deep breath, "Which two?"

"Jameson," said Bruce.

"Naturally," said Earle. "He's the obvious choice. He's the oldest and will be happy with a quiet retirement. I assume you will be keeping this out of the press."

"As much as we can," said Bruce.

Earle narrowed his brows, "Why? Who else are you replace?"

"You," said Bruce, smiling.

"You can't do that!" shouted Earle, his well-guarded anger completely laid to bare.

Bruce looked at him, and something about his expression seemed to cow Earle.

He regained a measure of control and said, "Who are you going to fill the positions with?"

Lucius stepped shoulder to shoulder with Bruce.

Earle had had enough, "You won't get away with this, you pompous, arrogant-"

The window to their left broke inwards. The two thugs on repelling ropes found their feet sloppily, abundantly unprofessional. However, their actions were muted, subdued by the shrieking peel of laughter that seemed to drown out even the wind that swept through the open window.

The Joker landed with an almost savage disregard for anything resembling safety. He wasn't on the ground for more than a moment when he pulled a gun and pointed it right at Earle.

"Please, hold your applauds!" he simpered over the gale. "This will likely be a short performance!"

"What do you want?" cried Earle.

The Joker laughed, "I'm quite sure your sanity couldn't take knowing!"

He turned, his gun still trained on Earle, to look at Bruce and Lucius, and blinked.

"What," he said, his voice dripping murderously intensity, "deary me, is going on here?"

Bruce dropped backward, landing hard on the floor on his rear, this eyes locked on the gun, his expression in a rigid catatonia.

The Joker stared at him with something akin to disbelief, then shook his head and returned it to Lucius.

"Care to share, sir?" he asked, his tone jovial once again.

Earle spoke up, "They are here to fire me. They are taking over the board."

"Shut up," said Graves, her expression stony.

"Really?" asked the Joker. "That is what I was going to do. And by fire you, I mean kidnap- No. No, no; that won't do at all. Take you hostage doesn't really work. Ah! Abduct! I am here to abduct you. Abduct you right off the side of a building!"

He crowed again, dancing in place.

"But," he continued, his gun waving a bit wildly, "looks like I'm upgrading!"

By the time he fired his first shot, Graves was already diving for cover. The shot went wide, his supporting back leg kicked sideways by Bruce's scrambling feet as he tried to sneak under the table. The shot clipped one of the lawyers' shoulder, the other running, Earle locked in place. The rest of the clip was emptied with aimless abandon, the Joker fully turned aside as he walked to Lucius's side, running out as he grabbed the man's arm.

"What's your name?" he asked, one of his goons waking up with a harness hooked to a line.

Lucius said nothing, but The Joker glanced at his ID.

"Well, Foxy!" he expounded. "You are going out this window. Whether you are attached to this line or not, is up to you!"

The harness was strapped in place, and the four walked to the windows edge, or rather three walked and the other was dragged, despite his attempts to walk himself.

"Alas, cruel world!" screamed the Joker. "I can't take it anymore!"

The two shoved Lucius out, and he disappeared below, the Joker screaming as though he was the one falling. His scream quieted with the allusion of distance until he added a final, "Thud."

He guffawed, slamming his cronies on the back.

"Boys," he said, turning to the room at large, "Let's blow this popsicle stand!"

There was a sound like a release of pressurized air, but as the Joker looked over his shoulder, he saw nothing to indicate what made the noise. With a whoop, he disappeared out of sight after his henchmen.

Bruce slid out from under the table with a liquid grace. His tie was off as he landed beside the lawyer.

"How bad is it?" she asked, her voice stuttering as she started going into shock.

Bruce said nothing, cinching the makeshift bandage in place as security burst in.

Graves stood up from cover, "What took you!?"

Security turned to Earle, "I'm sorry sir. They infiltrated the building at multiple points. We have been chasing masked clowns all over the building a few floors up and down for the last ten minutes. They knew exactly how many runners they needed to tie us up."

Earle blinked, but before he could speak, Bruce stood up.

"Mr. Earle is no longer an employee of Wayne Enterprises," he said. "I want this woman looked after, Mr. Earle and Ms. Graves escorted out of the building, this room cordoned off for GPD, all surveillance made readily available to them. Have the EMS already been called for?"

"Yes sir," said the security guard, nonplussed but already keeping pace. "Our own medical team should be here-"

The team came in at that moment, and the guards began carrying out Bruce's instruction. Bruce went to the express elevator.

"You need an escort, sir," said the security guard.

Bruce gave him a look so sharp, it could trim steel, and he halted in place.

Once in the express elevator, Bruce pressed his palm to a smooth and seamless area above the panel of buttons. The flash of a scanner appeared, and the elevator dropped to the secret subbasement.

"What is it, sir?" Pennyworth asked through the computer console of the annex of Bruce's primary system.

Bruce's business suit hit the floor as he began putting on his secondary gear, placed here for just such an occasion.

"He took Lucius," he said, his voice flat.

"He who, sir?" asked Pennyworth.

"The Joker," said Bruce, fitting his gear into place.

"Good Lord," said Pennyworth.

"I have a tracker on The Joker and RFID tag frequency for Lucius' id," said Bruce. "I'll be heading out shortly."

"You best look at Gotham news, sir," said Pennyworth, and with a brief verbal command, the display changed to the channel in question.

Rising from the base of Wayne Tower was a large blimp. It was adorned with clownish accouterments, an eye-catching garish display, with an open door on one side of the control compartment, the only break in the triple line of dynamite that lined the compartment. Hanging out of the door with a vest of explosives and a pressure trigger in his hand was The Joker, laughing without end.

Bruce checked a secondary display and blinked.

"It's not him," said Bruce.

"I'm sorry, sir?" asked Pennyworth.

"It's not him, Alfred," said Bruce. "Every single eye in Gotham is going to be watching the blimp. Which is why he won't be on it. It's too big a threat for the authorities to ignore. But I have to. Beside..."

Bruce checked the display again, "...the tracker isn't on the blimp."

He shifted perspectives on the display, "He's in a vehicle, by the speed, heading towards the bay, towards one of the locations I track Jones to. I'm sure he has Fox with him. He is out of range, but the last signal I got from him was in proximity to the Joker at the time."

"How will you pursue him, sir?" ask Pennyworth. "You can't readily run rooftop to rooftop, tracking a vehicle in broad daylight."

Bruce nodded, "I have a way. It's time for a field test."


	24. 24 - Daybreak

The Joker's gleeful dance had him almost toppling over as the van changed lanes, his frame hunched over a smartphone he had taken from one of his lackeys, which displayed a live video feed of the blimp.

"Ah," he crackled, "what I would give to be up there, putting it all on the line for one last joke!"

One of the men to Lucius' left watched the Joker with something akin to wonder, "Then why aren't you?"

The Joker smiled, and it was not a happy thing, "Are you asking me to explain humor to you?"

The man looked as though he had just been cut in half at the waist, his face suddenly bloodless, the disbelieving shock smashing its way onto his face unceremoniously.

"No," he barely managed to tremble out of his lips, "not at all, Mr. Joker, sir."

The Joker's smile became jovial again, "Excellent! Sometime I should introduce you to the last fellow who did that. I think I still have the largest bit of him still smeared on the bottom of my shoe."

He howled, stamping his feet again.

"Why the misdirection?" Lucius asked. "It seems like more than just a way to escape."

The Joker smiled, though it wasn't humorless as it had been before, it certainly wasn't a nice smile.

"All the best jokes are about misdirection," he simpered. "For example, what do you call a black man who flies a plane?"

Every other person in the van looked shocked, more than one pair of eyes darting back and forth between Fox and the Joker.

"A pilot," said Lucius coldly. The men look nonplussed but the Joker laughed all the harder.

There was suddenly a basso thrum, a deep rumbling engine, and, with an almost musical and somehow electric crescendo, a rather large and sleek futuristic black motorcycle came blasting out of a nearby subway station entrance, using the span between the two escalators as a ramp, the rider's black cape billowing out like wings.

People scrambled for cover as the vehicle swerved down the sidewalk, finally hoping from the curb and pulling into traffic four cars back from the van.

There was a protracted silence, the expression on the Joker's face turn to almost orgasmic ecstasy. Then, his laughter returned, "And there is the punchline!"

Bruce lost no time, cutting around two cars in less than a second. The tracker and the RFID were coming from the van, as he theorized. He cut up beside the van and leaped from the bike, it balancing itself and falling back behind the van to avoid traffic, as well as position itself for Bruce's most probably exit direction. He landed on the side panel of the van, gripping the edge of the roof, rolling up onto it as the bullets began ripping outward at his probable location. They followed him as he found his balance atop the vehicle, the driver trying the throw him off with a few quick swerves. Grabbing a pair of miniaturized gas grenades, I slapped them through the holes the shots had made as they were reloading. Pulling two bat motif throwing stars, he promptly broke both side mirrors before silently dropping down the other side of the van, beside the sliding door. As the gas filled the van, they began opening windows, and finally, slid the sliding door open.

Bruce was ready. He leaped in amongst them, his first blow disarming the Joker, the most likely to fire without thought for those around him. He landed his techniques in pairs, either attack and defending from two angles at a time. The Joker reached into his coat, but instead of pulling a gun, a jet of liquid sprayed from the garish and obviously faux flower upon his lapel. The liquid splashed on Bruce's armor, the van's floor, and one of the thugs behind Bruce. The man started screaming immediately, and Bruce had just enough time to note the acid was eating its way through the floor before he acted. Still managing to block blows with his lagging leg and his uncontaminated arm, he pulled a neutralizing agent from his belt and splattered it over the burned man and his own arm, in that order. But the distraction had been enough. Turning back to the Joker, Bruce found him grinning back, holding a cellphone. His grin turned crazed as he pressed send. The world seemed to grow momentarily quiet, and then, like a gathering storm, there was a deep and distant boom.

Bruce didn't stop to think. He pressed the button on his belt, crossing the short distance between himself and the Joker, slapping the phone from his hand and slamming him down on one knee, holding him by the nape of the neck. He stopped the oncoming attacker with a backfist, just as the Joker reached down for something at his feet. Bruce was forced to turn and subdue his final opponent, the Joker standing straight, laughing relatively maniacally at the small tracer he had pulled from his shoe.

"You do have a way about you, don't you, Bats?" he giggled. "Where do you get such wonderful toys?"

Bruce came forward and dropped under the Joker's swinging fist, punching him in the top of his quad so hard that his foot slipped out from under him. Going down, the Joker laughed.

"What's it going to be, Bats?!" he cackled. "The blimp is going down! You can stop it or you can catch me. What's it gonna be?"

Bruce pulled the Joker up to face him, "Both, clown."

He threw him against the wall of the van with enough force to knock him out. He closed with the driver just in time to catch the gun he was raising and disarm him. Without putting up much of a fight, he stopped the van.

Lucius hopped out, watching momentarily as Bruce used high-density zip ties to bind their hands and feet, he was about to get to the Joker when the sound of a roaring motorcycle pulled up. Bruce turned to see a young woman on a red and black bike, wearing matching body armor and helmet, come driving up. She pulled the bike around, flipping off of it with the skills of an experienced gymnast. She landed with a spinning sweep, which Bruce avoided easily. She managed to throw a few blows and was about to do more when the Joker stirred.

Rolling out of the van, he caught up one of the discarded guns, suddenly grabbing the woman and pointing the gun at the side of her helmet. She squealed in surprise as he grabbed her and held her as a human shield.

"Back off Buttman or the broad goes bye bye!" he sang, pulling back the hammer with a flick.

Bruce stood back, raising his hands.

"Get on the Harley," he told her, and after a confused moment, the Joker's hostage complied, though he kept her between himself and Bruce the whole time. They both managed to get the bike up and pulled away into traffic.

Sitting behind her, gun still raised, the Joker began indicating turns with his free hand. Finally, she pulled into one of the tunnels, and as they came to a maintenance entrance, the Joker reached around and grabbed the break. Nearly toppling the bike, he grabbed the other handlebar with his gun hand as it snaked around her, shifting her off her center of gravity and throwing her off to the pavement.

"Thanks, baby!" he guffawed, flipping something at her like a coin, some small piece of technology. "Couldn't have done it without you, love. Feel free to be my hostage any time!"

He howled, twisting the throttle, pulling a wheelie that nearly landed the bike on top of him, and raced away.

"Wow," she said behind her helmet. She wasn't sure how much time passed before he pulled up. Dismounting from his vehicle, the Batman lifted her from the ground and raised her up against the wall by the collar.

"Where is he?" he half-snarled. "Where's the Joker?"

"Wow," was all she said.

Batman's daylight debut was huge news in Gotham, getting just as much coverage as the Joker's. The news crews were able to put together the actual events with surprising speed, but it helped that most of it was videoed or televised, and the parts that weren't, such as anything involving Batman, were very public and witnessed.

The police could do nothing but circle the large, clownish blimp as it burned. The first explosion had been loud, setting most of it ablaze, but explosives that hadn't detonated were still visible as the blimp plummeted down towards the city. The officers on the ground were trying to clear civilians from the radius of the blast, but the site where it would land was so undefined, it was impossible to coordinate the effort effectively, on the fly and within the short time frame. The damage and death seemed inevitable, until a black jet-craft of unknown, but accurately theorized, origin swooped down, firing a towing grapple, before pulling the nearest body of water, dropping it into Gotham River, just missing the Narrows. While the Joker himself had not been apprehended, the only lives lost had been those of the blimp's occupants. Lucius Fox had given an interview, publicly thanking all of those who had contributed to the saving of his life, though not mentioning the Batman directly. His interview announced the Wayne Enterprises' shift in leadership, to which stock dropped before jumping, more than making up the difference. Daytime crime dropped a few points, repairs to Wayne Tower were commenced, Bruce Wayne publicly announced the official appointment of CEO to Lucius Fox and their discontinued involvement with LexCorp, and GCPD was given a larger budget to increase the number of police choppers they could sustain. All, for a time, was quiet.

Bruce was sitting in the Batcave, his helm in his hands, his head bowed, his eyes shut and pensive.

"Is everything alright, sir?" asked Pennyworth, bringing down a light, sustaining meal.

Bruce didn't move for a long moment, then spoke, his voice low and rough.

"It should have been me, Alfred," he whispered. "It should have been me. I knew the Joker would want a hostage he could publicly humiliate, torment, someone he could tear down from great heights to show the world that even the mightiest could fall. I acted as though I were already so weak, below the Joker's interests, so he moved on to Lucius."

"Sir," said Alfred, "if the Joker had taken you, who would have come to your aid? Superman?"

Bruce snorted, "Maybe. But that isn't what I did. I was willing to sacrifice Lucius, to place him in the truest of true mortal danger, to achieve my ends. It was acceptable to me to risk the closest thing I have to a real friend so I could do my job. This isn't how it should be."

Pennyworth nodded, "I see, sir. Are you sorry that you made the choice?"

"No," said Bruce. "But I'm sorry that I'm not sorry."

"Is this not the same issue we spoke on before, sir?" asked Pennyworth. "Are you afraid of viewing the people in your life as pawns?"

The corner of Bruce's mouth twitched humorlessly, "No, Alfred, I am afraid that my friends cannot actually be just that; friends. They can't be my friends, because just as soon as it will be necessary to sacrifice them, to treat them as tools to do what needs to be done, I will without a second's thought. How can I claim them as friends if I would so disregard them? No one deserves such pretense."

Alfred took a slow breath, "Sir, if you'll forgive me for even implying so, being in your employ isn't always easy. Not for the long hours or the labors I must attend, but because, often, the only action I can take to benefit my only and most important charge is to do nothing. However, this is not one of those times."

Pennyworth walked forward. He stood before Bruce. Kneeling, he took the helm from his hands. His eyes met Bruce's, Pennyworth's hand on the chair, not actually touching his Master's.

"Thomas and Martha Wayne did not deserve their fate. They loved you more than I can fully understand. Had they had the choice, they gladly would have given their lives to save yours. And not just because you are their child, but because they knew the extraordinary man you would become. Being a part of your life isn't easy, but the actions you take do not make you worth any less, nor will I ever fault you for them. You are doing what you believe to be right, and I have no doubt in you. I never will. Now, sir. Unless there is anything else, I'll be retiring for the night."

"Just one more thing, Alfred," said Bruce to his retreating back.

"Yes, sir?" asked Pennyworth.

Bruce swallowed, "Thank you."


	25. 25 - Take Down

"We've had enough."

It was impossible not to recognize the deep and raspy hiss of Killer Croc. In truth, there were a few at the long table, deep in the depths of Gotham's underworld, who had voices comparable to the large reptilian man, but few who could fill their words with that level of vitriol.

The Joker, lounging sideways in his high backed chair, was largely unaffected by his words or tone.

"Enough?" asked the Joker, his voice flushed with giggly disbelief. "But we're just getting started!"

"I'm not talking about the meeting," said Croc. "I'm talking about how you are running things. You're not in this for the money; you're in this for the fame and the glory. And, frankly, you can't spend fame and your plans haven't been too glorious as of late."

"Your plans have come off worse and worse," said Black Mask. "Batman has hit you harder and faster with every new job. It's only a matter of time before he finds this place or starts taking us in or worse. You may be perfectly alright with living in that hole they call a hospital, but I ain't a fan."

Joker rolled with laughter, nearly overturning the chair.

"You think Batman is going to kill you?!" he wheezed between guffaws. "You don't understand him at all, do you?!"

"The point is, you calamitous clown," said Penguin, "we don't like your methods. We are not interested in incarceration, but remuneration. Perhaps a degree of restructuring is in order."

"Oh, deary me," mused the Joker with a nearly singsong tone, "you all really are so transparent. You don't care about getting caught. You don't care about the money. You care about power. You care about control. What do I have to do to convince you people that what your trying so hard to steal away from me doesn't actually exist? Wait! I know!"

He tugged at a heretofore unnoticed cord from the arm of his chair. A panel burst open in the top of the chairs high back, revealing two large canisters of some unknown chemical, ready to mix at the triggering of the radio receiver. The Joker raised the deadman's switch in his hand, and everyone at the table jumped back.

"There!" he cried, standing up in the chair and stamping a little jig, the chemical jumping wildly in their containers. "Now that's more like it. You all think that I am in control, that anyone can be in control, but no one is. There is always something, just out of view, ready to reach out and smack you sideways, to prove to you just how little your supposed control is actually worth."

There was a sound like ringing metal, and suddenly, a spinning gleam of black flashed in the low light, the iconography of a bat etched in dark steel slicing the tubing below on canister. The contents of one canister streamed down the chair, the Joker stepping up on the table, staring. Taking a deep breath and smiling, he dropped the switch. The two chemicals could no longer mix, absolutely nothing happening.

"See?" he said. "Just like that!"

With two flashes, the opposite corners began to fill with billows of smoke. The room was in chaos in seconds. And then, he was there, the Batman, seemingly everywhere at once. He dropped from the ceiling, landing atop a man, striking him into unconsciousness before he hit the ground, leaping off the falling body to land upon another man who was clobbered by Croc as the Batman ran up the large man's arm. Leaping from his shoulder back into the rafters, there was a pop of compressed air, and he sailed back down, in time with a man across the table sailing upwards. Swinging from a nearly invisible cord, he was able to dodge a thrown knife and the discharge of shot from an umbrella while able to kick three mean with incapacitating force. He dropped to the floor, as did the other man fell from the rafters, each taking down another for before Batman turned his attention to Croc. Pulling two quad pronged tasers from under his cape, he fired all of them into the man at once. The batteries ran dry before Croc was stopped, and while the electrodes themselves were not enough to put him down, his constricted muscles kept him from pulling them out, letting the encapsulated tranquilizer flow. He got two steps after the power died on the tasers before his step wobbled and he clutched his head before tripping and slumping to the floor. After that, even those who considered themselves fighters were running. And, at every single entry into the room, just out of range of their lookouts, Gotham's finest was waiting.

The takedown was clean. Any gunfire was short-lived, and with Batman behind them and swat before them, most gave up without a fight. They were well informed and prepared, able to take into custody ever individual they arrested, able to make allowances to compensate for strange or dangerous cases, including Zasz and Jones. Unfortunately, there was one set of restraints that remained empty.

"Where is he?" called Bullock. "Where's The Joker!?"

"Here, sir," called one of the swat officers. He was kneeling at the arm of the high backed chair, his weapon trained downward. It had been slid back, revealing a square opening in the floor.

"That wasn't on any of the schematics!" yelled Bullock. "Who's fault is this?"

"Bullock," called Gordon, walking in. "What's going on? Where's The Joker?"

Bullock gestured and Gordon's face fell.

"All of you!" yelled Bullock. "We told you! Joker was priority one!"

"That's enough, Detective," said Gordon, his voice quiet, but carrying enough weight to cut through Bullock's tirade. "This was my raid. If anyone is going to take responsibility for this, it's me."

"Commish," said Bullock in low protestation.

"I said enough," repeated Gordon, his voice hard. "Now, clear the room."

Tight-lipped, Bullock sighed and turned to the officers standing around, "You heard the commissioner; let's clear the room."

Gordon had the room to himself in moments, which was less time than it took for him not to be alone.

"How did you miss him?" his voice empty of accusation.

"A lack of knowledge," the Batman said, kneeling at the square space in the floor. "He fashioned this himself. It's crudely done and leads to a spillway. Water is waist high right now, moving quick, with any number of possible branches. I can't tack him from here, There is no obvious exit he might take, and he found the tracker I placed on him."

"So what now?" asked Gordon. "You made it sound like we would have to start from scratch if we missed him here."

"We will," said Batman. "But The Joker isn't low profile. Now, he has fewer men and resources. He'll either implement a plan that's already in motion or do something seeming desperate. Either way, we won't have long to wait. It will be soon and it will be higher profile than anything he's done yet, and it will be all him."

Gordon nodded, "If you have time tonight, we just got in a body to the morgue you may want to look at. Might help with a lead on the Joker."

Bruce accessed the GCPD database, cross-referenced and pulled up case photos, which narrowed it down to one possible case.

"John Doe four forty-eight?" asked Bruce.

Gordon stopped short, "I swear, someday you'll have to explain how you do that."

Bruce nodded, "I'll come by later tonight."

The alert went off, and Bruce added, "if I have time."

He made it to the rooftops in record time, ready for whatever this visit warranted. He needed something to get his mind off of his unacceptable failure. The Joker was not only still loose in Gotham, but it would likely mean more death and carnage before the end. Bruce needed something to do to get his mind off the guilt. And when he arrived, he was almost unable to hide his shock and dismay.

His visitor hung in the air, a slight drifting to his movements. The solid, almost palpable sense of immobility was gone. He was pushed this way and that, almost as unsettlingly so as his expression. Bruce took minutes to run through every word he could think of to describe it. Desolate, ravaged, destroyed, despairing, bereft, torment, lost, forlorn, and nothing, absolutely nothing fit. Everything fell short. Superman was utterly defeated.

Bruce stepped from the shadows, not sure where to begin, how to begin. This was not a mission he knew how to succeed at, a problem he knew how to solve. His calculations began, but before he could find a better opening remark than "What happened," Superman spoke.

"Do you know Lex Luthor? Do you know what he is?"

Bruce knew more of Lex Luthor than most. He had not simply allowed the deal with LexCorp to end but had gone on and found as much evidence of Luthor's wrongdoings as he could before breaking away. What he had found was not only dismaying but definitive. Lex Luthor was undeniably one of the most intelligent and devious human beings on the planet. He was in some ways smarter than Bruce, motivated by power, and had, by all accounts, achieved every end he sought. But, what was more, Luthor was a corrupt bully.

"I know what men like Luthor are capable of," Bruce said, none too pleased with where this conversation was heading.

Superman seemed drawn down, pressed slowly to the rooftop, his toes skimming the concrete for several feet before he found his footing. He seemed unable to stand straight, his hand propped against the wall supportingly. He was morally defeated in every sense of the word.

"Luthor," Superman said, his words faltering. "He... discovered who I really am."

Bruce blinked, keeping his eyes closed for a long while behind his cowl. He had considered the possibility that Superman was living among humans as though he were one. His mannerisms and comfortable speech were learned at length, nor was his customs or trains of thought particularly foreign, even by Earth's standards, let alone alien ones. He had to be functioning as a citizen of Metropolis, and despite curiosity and demanding need to know, Bruce had not yet run the program that would give him Superman's alternate identity.

"What did you expect?" he said, stepping up beside Superman. "There exists countless images of you from all over the world. Someone with Luthor's resources could compile data points and make comparisons until they figure it out eventually."

Superman nodded, almost absently, then seemed unable to raise his head up again.

"I spend so much time worried about other things," said Superman. "I didn't think... I hadn't considered... Having this knowledge means that Luthor can keep me at bay by threatening the ones I care about, and it has already cost one man his life."

Bruce grimaced for less than a second. He knew that there was little he could do, even if he was prepared to leave Gotham unattended and help.

"If it is any consolation," he said, "I would have offered to remove as many of online images as I could, but that seemed contrary to your way of doing things. Being seen in all that you are would only help those you defend. For me, on the other hand, the less I am seen, the more it hinders those who prey on the people I protect."

Superman shook his head, "I don't know what I am going to do. Luthor is right; the legal system can be bent, and those with know-how and power can indefinitely thwart it. I have no moral right to stop him unless he breaks the law or threatens those around him. But I don't even know how to qualify what he has already done and if it truly is a threat, or to whom. Really, what choice do I have?"

Bruce thought about it for a long moment. If his identity was discovered the following day, he was sure that three lawyers and a psychologist would be enough to keep him from doing one day in jail. He understood Superman's point; despite the different means and ends, he and Luthor were not so different from a general and broad point of view. But ultimately, that notion was true about most people. The means were nominally the same. The end that means got you to was the telling thing.

Bruce realized that Luthor, despite his means and power, was no different from every other crook he knew, every other thug. And thugs he understood.

"You always have a choice," he said. "The belief you are entertaining right now, that you don't, is a lie Luthor wants you to believe. You are allowing the man free will, to do whatever he wants, even if it is immoral and technically illegal, but you are denying yourself that same right. If you do believe that you don't, then you are giving him what he wants-"

Bruce looked over his notes, and went on, "-and you might not stop what comes next."

Superman looked up for the first time, "What comes next?"

Bruce looked over the information he had found while digging through LexCorp to find all the dirt he could before breaking ties with it.

"I am still working on it," he said. "Luthor has set up a lab of sorts, in a subbasement in LexCorp Tower. The servers are off the grid, the shielding around it mattes out any sensor I have tried to use to penetrate it, even sound. I have been digging through shipping orders, but all the technology that has come in from outside contractors has been typical since the building opened. Unless he is either using usual tech in unusual ways, he must have used secondary sites to construct whatever he is keeping in there and has had it transported off the books by a method I haven't been able to trace yet."

Superman nodded, then looked out over Gotham, dropping his head again, "I don't know what to do."

There was a long pause. Bruce collected his thoughts, knowing he wouldn't be able to speak the words without his own emotions seeping through, "Fear is powerful. When we are afraid, we lose sight of ourselves completely. We act, stupidly, often repetitively, out of habit rather than by thought and deduction. Fear is the reason crimes happen, and it is my greatest weapon. It keeps those who hurt others locked in predictable patterns and keeps criminals from making smart decisions. Don't let Luthor use that weapon against you."

Bruce's words twisted and it took a moment to get them out. He knew what he had to say, but such words were not his strong suit. But he reminded himself that the words were true, and said, "You are better than that."

He added silently in his own head, _better than me_.

Superman took a shuttering breath. As he did, he stood, straightened, finally standing tall and returned to his usual demeanor.

"Thank you," he said, extending a hand. "I needed to hear that."

Bruce shook, and as he did so, Superman smiled and said, as in introduction, "Clark Kent."

Bruce could feel the calculations, the risks being weighed, the tabulations, and with a mighty effort, he shoved that part of his brain aside, and, keeping his hand from trembling, said, his voice still steady, replied "Bruce Wayne."

"Pleased to meet you," Superman, Clark said.

"I will keep you informed if I find anything out about Luthor," said Bruce. "Do you still have the tablet I sent you?"

"Yes," Clark said.

"Check it periodically," Bruce went on. "I will keep it updated. If you need any additional help with Luthor, let me know."

"That's appreciated," said Clark, lifting into the air. "Good luck."

Bruce felt his face go flat behind his mask, "I don't believe in luck."

Clark couldn't suppress his smile, "Take care, Bruce."

And with a blur of primary colors, Clark was gone.


	26. 26 - Tale of Two Cities

Gotham morgue was sterile and minimalist, even by morgue standards. Deaths were frequent with a population so large and the even higher crime rate. Even though such tragedies had been lessened as of late, the efficient and well-funded institution still remained.

Gordon found the assistant medical examiner at her desk outside the largest and most used autopsy room. She had the manner of one who was purposefully ignoring absolutely everything around her except her work, and while this was no different from her usual behavior, the lack of her polite greeting was telling. Gordon smirked to himself as he passed her and entered the next room.

The room seemed still, silent, and seemingly empty, which was surprising given that it's only living occupants was standing in plain sight.

"We've seen this before," Gordon said, coming to stand beside the table, snapping medical glove in place as was his habit.

"The skull fracture is new," said Batman. "The grin looks similar, but the cause is new also."

Gordon looked down at the body in question. The mid-thirties male looked fairly typical, except for the ghastly grin the stretched his face and the bloodied indentation in his forehead.

"How is the cause different?" asked Gordon as he looked down at the file left open beside the autopsy instruments.

"The systems here aren't adequate to locate the differences," said Batman. "The laser spectrometer is a high enough resolution, but the system's analysis isn't fine enough to be distinctive."

"Meaning?" asked Gordon.

"The Joker is using some kind of agent," said Batman. "It is small enough to make it throw the blood-brain barrier, but functions as an enzyme. The first time we came in contact with this agent, it was inducing some sort of humor response, so intense that the individual wouldn't ever stop laughing. At least, not until the agent worked itself out of the victim's system and the receptor proteins could be replaced."

"How long would that take?" Gordon asked.

"Weeks," Batman said, "and the victim might never fully recover. An agent that complex would have countless side effects."

"You said that this agent," Gordon gestured to the John Doe, "was different. In what way?"

Batman turned a page in the folder.

"This agent isn't simply inducing a permanent humor response," he said. "It's redirecting brain chemistry somehow, overriding the brain's ability to feel pain and turning it into euphoria, into that same kinda of humor response."

"So," Gordon stared at the body. "The damage was self-inflicted like the report said?"

Batman grimaced, "He literally beat his head against a wall until he died, thinking it was hilarious. This has Joker written all over it, even if we didn't know about the first agent."

"But how is he making it?" asked Gordon. "Wouldn't you need a chem lab for something like this? Supplies?"

"More than that," Batman said, closing the file. "You would need equipment, one of the most advanced bio laboratories in the area, degrees in biology and chemistry, research. This isn't a little side gig the Joker has going on. This is a long-term project with a very specific goal. And I'm going to figure out what."

Gordon nodded looking down at the body, "I wish we knew his name, could notify his family."

"Marcus Hudson," echoed the Batman's voice. Gordon looked up and he was gone.

Bruce hopped onto the Batcycle, wishing that it went faster. The new prototype vehicle Lucius had put together, a majority of which was composed of components created by Earl Cooper, was currently being built in modules at a dozen different off-site locations, some of which were off the grid, underground, even nefarious. It would be completed in a matter of days, if not hours, and Bruce would be glad when it would be. Aside from being capable of driving itself, the large vehicle could function more effectively at allowing him to interface with his central computer. He would have a mobile satellite terminal, which he could use on the move, faster and safer than the one vehicle he used now.

As he was thinking this, he received an alert from the central computer. He recognized the alert tone; one of his search protocols had reached a standstill. It needed more information or was ready for him to view its findings.

"Audio output," whispered Bruce over the rush of wind and the engine's rumble.

"Audio output engaged," said the digitized voice. "Search complete."

"Relay results," said Bruce.

"Unable to comply," said computer. "Pandora Protocols are currently activated."

Bruce took a long breath. The Pandora Protocols were something he and Lucius had gone over in detail, meticulously creating the system to the best of their combined abilities. Bruce had no qualms about local officials. He was politically beneficial to most officials in Gotham and not doing enough to merit stopping or otherwise tracking him down, even if they had the civil might to try. However, if he began to affect the status quo on a federal level, moved onto a national playing field, he would start getting the attention of those who could potentially interfere with his work. And while that would be inconvenient, Bruce didn't yet have a plan in place to deal with dodging federal inquiries or investigations. Pandora Protocols prevented him from stepping into the more dangerous arena until he was ready or needed to.

"State search tag," said Bruce.

"LexCorp," stated the computer.

Bruce leaned on the accelerator.

Bruce had already done an information sweep of LexCrop systems. The hack was complicated and problematic, but in the end, he didn't think he had gotten anything Luthor didn't want him to find. He had learned that LexCorp had a variety of satellite facilities all over the world, at least two per continent, including Antarctica, that were doing testing with or on metahumans, trying to create them, reproduce their innate talents or abilities, or to negate their powers. It was the foundation for the LX program, a robot capable of combating metahumans and protecting human life. But Bruce knew better. The fact that these machines could not be subdued by conventional means and had massive potential as weapons were not lost on him. And, unless he was mistaken, he was about to discover the military's interest in these robots.

He entered the cave around dawn, one of the latest nights he had had in some time. He had less than three hours sleep in the last forty-eight, and he was starting to feel every waking moment of it. Clearing his head, he secured the cycle before racing to the computer. He pulled off his gloves and cowl, deftly rubbing the contacts out of his eyes. Standing in front of the computer, he said aloud, "Cancel Pandora Protocols."

Even without a plan to escape federal retribution, Bruce knew that this situation had too much potential dangerous not to take the risk. Two deep tissue palm scans, two retina scans, a face scan, and a verbal passphrase later, the Protocol was deactivated and the information was available.

"No!" Bruce said aloud, sometime later. It was clear what was happening. According to the restricted military file, an LX5 robot had battled with Superman, something Bruce recalled hearing about and was unable to give much thought at the time. But what had not been revealed to the public was that the fight had allowed Luthor to analyze, not only Superman's combat abilities and tactics, but Superman himself as well. His body proved to be impervious to most known methods of scanning, but the material his uniform was made from and how he fought was largely beneficial in designing and creating the LX6. The new design had proved themselves capable of restraining Superman, as showcased by a brief video clip of seven of them holding him at bay. Bruce didn't even need to read the rest of the information to know what was coming next.

"Master Wayne?" asked Pennyworth as he came into the room. "Have you been up all night again, sir?"

"Alfred," said Bruce, "get me Lucius. The military is going to make a move on Superman."

Pennyworth did as he was told, dialing as he said, "A move, sir?"

"They think that they have a method to stop him by force," said Bruce. "They are confident enough to play their next hand, but Lex Luthor has a better hand and enough chips to take them all in."

"Hello," came Lucius voice from the speaker.

"Are we on the secured line?" asked Bruce.

"Yes, sir," said Pennyworth.

"Lucius," Bruce went on. "I need you to get to either here or the Wayne Tower subbasement, whichever is closer. I need to search through a lot of classified information and do it without being noticed. The nation's power structure relies upon it."

"I'm on my way," said Lucius. "What are we looking for?"

"When the military is going to arrest Superman," said Bruce.

There was a long pause, "You won't need to do the search."

Before Lucius could go on, Bruce pushed over to a free screen and brought up the news feed. It was happening now; Luthor and General Lane were announcing publicly that they were calling for Superman's arrest, and there was nothing Bruce could do to stop it.

"Shall we begin arranging to get you there, sir?" asked Pennyworth, and Bruce shook his head.

"I have nothing in motion, Alfred," said Bruce. "The best I could do is stall. There isn't time to do more. I just have to hope that what Luthor has in mind isn't permanent while I think of some-"

The newsfeed changed. It went from Luthor and Lane to a video, airing online, of The Joker.

"Not now!" Bruce nearly snarled.

"Greetings, you fun-loving folk of Gotham!" cackled the Joker. "Joker here! And I would love to invite you to my little party! We will dance! We will party like there's no tomorrow! Because, for many of you, there won't be! Now, you have got to be wondering, how do I get to such a wondrous local? Well, the good news is, you're already there! Don't bother looking, because the party is coming to you! It's odorless! It's tasteless! You'll know it's there when this happens!"

The shot switches over to a man, laughing, repeatedly smashing his head into a concrete wall in front of him. Every time he does, the gore and laughter increased.

"So," said Joker, "just keep your eyes open and the party is coming to you! It's only a matter of time!"

The video cut out.

"Tracking videos origin," said Bruce, typing away since the video started. "I've got it. It's coming from a building in Midtown."

He brought up police dispatch, "G.C.P.D. is already in route. They should be there momentarily."

He hacked the SWAT head cams as they burst into the room, finding nothing but a laptop hardwired to a server.

Bruce sat back, thinking.

"The video wasn't live," he finally said. "The victim in the video was in the morgue last night. Lucius?"

"I'm here," he said, the call cutting out and his voice now being relayed through the terminal.

"I want you to start working on an antigen for this biological agent," said Bruce. "We have the compound, so your best bet will be creating a vaccine to create antibodies to bind to the enzyme involved. The computer should help you with the binding configurations. It will just need help in deciphering protein folding methods."

"Already on it," said Lucius. "By the way, I have a present for you. It should be arriving any moment."

Before Bruce can do more than retrieve his cowl and gloves and grab another container of contacts, there is a deep hum and he turned to see a large vehicle drive itself into the cave. With a throaty growl, it pulled to a halt perfectly in the designated area for the Batmobile.

"Apparently your computer restructured the construction processes for expedience," said Lucius. The hatch opened.

"Sounds like a perfect chance for a test run to me," said Bruce.

With a leap, he landed, waved the vehicle into action, dawned he accouterments, and took the wheel, speeding towards Gotham, hoping that Clark wouldn't do anything stupid.


	27. 27 - The Killing Joke

Bruce made it to the site of the uploaded video in less time than he thought possible. G.C.P.D. had secured the scene, but getting in wasn't hard, even if Gordon hadn't cleared the room moments after the text had come through.

"Anything?" he asked, looking as tired as Bruce was trying not to feel.

Bruce didn't have time to waste thinking about how to phrase his words. He backlogged the IP addresses the computer had sent and received packets to and from, finding what WiFi sources the laptop had used in the computer's recent past. Triangulating, he found a probable area of activity. Using the shape of that area, he was able to determine the Joker's comfort territory. And, as he was hoping, the location was different from that of the raid last night.

"The Joker has a secondary base of operations," said Bruce. "It is here in Midtown, on the other end."

He gave Gordon a probably size and the central intersection before leaving the room without another word.

He landed in the Batmobile and pushed hard in the likely destination. Despite the citywide emergency broadcast asking people to stay in their homes, there was still traffic on the road, people braving their way to work or out of the city. They quickly pulled to the side of the road as they caught the black, imposing vehicle they couldn't rightly call a car in their rear view.

As Bruce stopped at the central intersection, he turned on all devices. He scanned all frequencies and spectrums the Batmobile could detect, filtering them through the computer as he spiraled his way outward, looking for something he could use. He found it.

As he was spiraling, Bruce was using the History on the laptop, constructing a list of operations the laptop have been doing over the last several weeks, the most prominent of which had been email. Cracking the email password, he found a number of emails that were writing using code phrases that he was far less interested in than the email address. Deconstructing the email protocols, he found the IP addresses the emails had been sent from, and found that one of them was coming from an apartment whose WiFi he had just pinged.

Bruce didn't have time to be subtle. The window broke as he smashed his way into the apartment. It was an obvious squat, the floors lined with low quality mattresses, trash everywhere, unusual supplies stashed where there was space. The two occupants started running immediately, one running right at Bruce to escape through the window, seemingly unaware of where the threat was coming from. Bruce grabbed her by the collar and dragged her out the window. She screamed her way to the edge of the fire escape.

"Where is the Joker?" he growled over her histrionics.

"Please no!" she screamed. "Don't!"

He pushed her against the railing, "I won't ask again."

"No, no," she panicked. "I don't know where he is!"

"You know something," he said. He reached down, grabbing an ankle and began leveraging her over the edge, still holding tight to her.

She screamed, trying to hold on to anything and move as little as possible at the same time.

"I don't want to die!" she cried.

"That is up to you!" whispered Bruce, then loudly, "Talk!"

"He... he...," she began.

"Is right here!"

Bruce turned. It wasn't the Joker. It was the other occupant, his face poorly and quickly smeared with a thin likeness of the Joker's makeup. But what was truly starting was the utterly manic grin on his face. He had taken the antigen.

Bruce pulled her back in over the rail, sacrificing his own ability to defend himself to get her to safety. It was a costly decision, for the insane clown just barreled straight into Bruce, and they both toppled over the railing. Bruce managed to grab the rail of the escape a floor down, but it wrenched his shoulder badly and slammed his ribs against the side of the rail. He looked down to see the cloth in his hand, the tattered edge of the clown's shirt, the only bit of him he could hold onto.

He looked down. The fall hadn't killed him, and Bruce called it in as he made it to the ground as quick as he could. The man was writhing on the asphalt, trying to keep laughing despite the fact that his body was too injured, too broken to keep it up. His dislocated jaw kept opening and closing in a made attempt to make the sound come out, but all that did was a wet, glopping sound.

Bruce felt his face harden behind it's harder mask, "Where is the Joker?"

There was no change, until Bruce realized what he thought was the same sound was slightly different. Listening hard, he was just able to make out, "Clock."

Bruce didn't wait for the ambulance, there wasn't time. He didn't have any way of saving the man's life and his presence here wouldn't do any good. He was in the Batmobile in seconds and speeding Downtown, crossing the narrows moments later.

The Clock Tower was one of the tallest buildings Downtown, second only to Wayne Tower, and was just about as centrally located and far less secure. It was currently a city landmark and was being protected by the Gotham Heritage and Preservation Society, but it was all but forgotten by all those it stood over, which was why it was the best location to gas bomb a city from.

Bruce was tempted to look into what was going on with Clark just before he arrived, but he couldn't afford any distractions. He had no idea what he was walking into. Instead, he shot a quick message to the Commissioner and headed up.

He made it to the top of the Clock Tower in utter silence, save for the subtle whine of the reel, the light flutter of his cloak, and the muffled impact of his landing, lost in the winds that always seemed to blow at this height. He closed with one of the exits that led onto the parapet that edged the Tower, and slipped inside after a briefly picked lock.

The room that housed the clock's mechanisms and controls was dark, large and made emptier still for the fact that so many components had been modernized and thus downsized, their predecessors locked behind glass at a local museum. Bruce hugged the wall, looking about, assessing where the bomb could be, when the long low hum of a voice rasped in murmuring giggle.

"It looks like there is a bat in my belfry," the Joker mused, his relatively quiet laughter echoing loudly to peal against every surface.

"It's over, Joker," called Bruce.

"Over?" asked the Joker, seemingly from nowhere. "I think not. It's only just beginning!"

The Joker danced into plain sight, tramping his feet and standing in the open. Bruce stood ready, weary.

"Nope," said the Joker looking around. "No goons and no guns. Just you and me, mono y mono. Now, it's just about seeing who gets the last laugh."

Bruce closed on him, hoisting him up and slamming him down on his back. The Joker wheezed his amusement around his knocked out air.

"Where are the bomb controls?" Bruce shouted in his face. "Tell me!"

The Joker found his voice, "Look around all you want."

Bruce stood straighter, yet more imposingly, "The bomb isn't here."

"Nope, nope, nope," singsonged the Joker. "And looking for it won't help you. There is only one way you can stop it now."

"There's always another way," said Bruce. "Tell me and I'll-"

"You'll what?!" cried the Joker his voice cracking. "Get me a reduced sentence? Not kill me? Be my best friend forever?"

The Joker hit Bruce, hard, in the face. The cowl took most of it, a plate cracking without breaking all the way through. The Joker let the brass knuckles slink off his hand.

"You aren't in control here, Bats," he said, his voice round and echoing in the large room. "You're on my turf, and you'll play by my rules or I'll take my ball and go home. And by go home, I mean kill more people in your beloved city than the plague!"

His laughter howled.

"You really have no idea just how good this is," the Joker said, his voice almost trembling. "I never ever thought I would find you, someone who got it, someone who understood!"

"Tell me where the bomb is," Batman said, standing up from where he staggered.

"Stop that," said the Joker, sounding slightly irritated. "You keep talking like you are one of them, one of these sniveling little fools, who thinks the world is good and they're in control and they are happy. You know better!"

The Joker slammed a clenched fist into his chest, "WE know better!"

Bruce grabbed the Joker and throw him across the room. He landed and slid, laughing all the way.

"You're starting to get it," he said, grinning maniacally. "Not just understand it, but to know, to feel it! There is no right answer, no clever solution, no clean and orderly end to this. Stop lying to yourself! I can see you! You can see it, I know you can! There is only one way out of this! And here, I'll make it easier for you!"

He turned, into what merger light there was, and pulled open his shirt, buttons popping. There was a surgical cut, weeks old, sutures bared, in his chest, around his heart.

"Yes!" howled the Joker. "You're starting to get it, aren't you?! You're really very good at this."

Bruce's eyes went wide as he understood. And the Joker nearly keeled over in his ecstasy, his exuberances leaving him breathless.

"The only way-", started Bruce.

"Yes," said the Joker. "Go on!"

"The only way to stop you," said Bruce, his voice rough. "To stop the bomb-"

"Say it!" screamed the Joker.

"-is to kill you," finished Bruce.

"Righty oh bob!" the Joker crowed. "We have a winner!"

For a moment, the mask slipped; for the first time since he put on the cowl in front of someone who didn't know his identity, Bruce spoke as himself, rather than as Batman, "Why are you doing this? What's the point?"

"Winning!" said the Joker expansively.

"That's not it," Bruce said, his rough as his vigor returned to him. "You are willing to die to prove a point! Why?"

The Joker's grin shifted from jubilant to slightly psychotic, "You're going to make me spell this out for you, aren't you, Bats?"

He sighed and spun dramatically.

"There are two types of people in this world, Bats," the Joker said listlessly through nearly clenched teeth. "Us, and them. Before, it was me and them. I found you pretty quick, once I knew that I was looking, but I think I've been looking for you a lot longer than that. The world would be so boring without the likes of us! All those other posers out there, who try to be original and unique by lying to themselves! They are really trying to fit in and not rock the boat and have no idea what it means to be in charge of yourself, to take responsibility for your own life. But we do!"

"I give your life meaning," said Bruce, rhetorically.

"We give each other meaning!" the Joker snapped. "Don't try to deny it, Bats! Without me, this struggle of yours wouldn't mean a thing!"

Bruce was quiet a long moment, then said, "No."

"What?" asked the Joker in an almost resonant hiss.

"You're wrong," said Bruce. "This isn't about finding meaning. You wanted to find someone who was just as screwed up as you are. You wanted someone you could point to, could lump together with yourself, so you wouldn't have to feel so alone anymore. You say I'm lying to myself, that everyone is, but you are no different. You are doing all of this just so you can have a life of meaning and you don't have to feel so lonely."

The Joker stared at him for a long unblinking moment, than began to shake.

With laughter.

The insane jubilance crescendoed so loudly the remaining decommissioned bell began to resonate.

"Hot diggity dang!" cackled the Joker. "We need to do this more often, Bats. Hell, I may be just as crazy as the rest of the world, but at least I can be honest about it. What's your excuse?"

Bruce blinked at him, saying nothing.

"Why are you doing this?" asked the Joker, and there was something in his voice, an undercurrent below the usual almost haughty distance. "You are willing to die to prove a point. Why?"

Bruce straightened, "Because it's the right thing to do."

"Bull!" cried the Joker. "There are infinitely better ways to do the right thing than to put on a bat costume and beat up the likes of me, to anyone besides you and me! Why are you doing this?"

Bruce almost sagged. Taking a deep breath with no outward signs of doing so, he said, "I wanted... revenge!"

The Joker looked momentarily dumbfounded.

"One of your ilk," Bruce went on, a passion unlike anything he had allowed himself to feel in years boiling forth, "took something precious from me. My safety! My innocence! My childhood! My illusions that the world is a genuinely good place. He left me with nothing, and now... Now, I am here to take that same safety, that same complacency from his like, so that they can never again do to the innocent what was done to me."

The Joker looked completely shocked. He blinked for a moment, almost as though to hold back tears. He swallowed, then took a shuttering breath, "I guess we aren't so different after all, aye Bats?"

Bruce hit him, knocking him to the ground. Once down, Bruce hit him again, hard enough to take the fight out of him. Then, sitting on his hips, he pulled out a small blade, leaning over the sutures in the Joker's chest.

"Wouldn't do that," said the Joker tonelessly, half-conscious. "Coulda put a trip mechanism in, right? Was thinking of you when I did it."

Bruce threw the blade into the wall. Grabbing the Joker by the collar, he bent down, his face inches from the Joker's.

"How do I disarm the bomb?!" he shouted with abandon. "Tell me!"

"Don't you hurt my puddin'!" cried a voice.

Bruce turned, the newcomer swinging something at his head, a sledgehammer maybe. He had time to avoid the majority of the blow, but he was still staggered by the force that connected with his helm. He rolled away, finding himself out of easy hand to hand combat range with a large caliber pistol pointed at him.

The woman was young, blonde hair tied out if her face, wearing red and black motorcycle gear, the sledge over one shoulder with her gun extended. Her face was painted white, her eyes and lips lined in black.

"No!" the Joker screamed, his sudden animation startling as he lunged upward and grabbed the gun. "You'll ruin it!"

Twisting around behind the weapon, the Joker clamped his entire arm around her wrist, determined the wrestle the gun from her grasp. Bruce bobbed and weaved, dodging out of the angle of trajectory as one, two, three shots rang out, all wide. Finally, the Joker smacked her across the face with his free hand, and this seemed to shock her into releasing her grip. He pushed her back with a kick, and as she staggered, he leveled her own gun at her, a look of relief settling upon his face.

"Now," he said, his breath a sigh, "that is so much better. To think what you could have done..."

The shot rang out, the bullet ripping through body armor and shredding the muscle of her shoulder. Bits of flesh and cloth sprayed with the misting of blood. She gave a piteous, heart-wrenching cry as she fell backward. Joker had been aiming for her center mass, but the shot was thrown off at the last moment. Looking down, he saw what had hit him.

The enlarged taser weapon designed to bring down the like of Waylon Jones had struck him with enough force that he had tottered where he stood. He looked at Bruce with an expression of surprise, then awe as Bruce jacked the weapon into his belt's backup battery pack and watched as the entire battery shorted through the taser.

The Joker was thrown sideways with the force of his fired muscles, his whole body spasming at the surge of electricity that ran through his system. Despite her arm and tear-filled eyes, the woman caught him with a cry of dismay. She lowered him to the ground as gently as she could with one arm and did a primary assessment as Bruce checked his pockets and pulled out a cellphone.

"He ain't breathing," said the woman. Bruce looked at the phone, the screen reading "Armed" in bright red text. The woman moved into position to begin CPR.

"No!" said Bruce loudly. "Wait!"

She looked affronted. Bruce took the time to access his facial recognition software.

"Think of what will happen if his gas is released," he said. "Think of what will happen if he kills thousands of people. He wouldn't survive it. Trust me, Quinzel."

She stopped and frowned, tears running down her distraught face.

Bruce did a wide spectrum scan of the area and found no other relays. Suddenly, the phone text turned green and said Disarmed, the phone playing a track of Joker's insane, triumphant laughter. Bruce smashed it.

"Not yet!" he admonished Quinzel, pulling a second blade from his belt. Pulling out the taser darts, he quickly cut the sutures and opened the incision. Unceremoniously, he pulled a few circuits and sensors from the Joker's flesh, smash them as well as he pulled an adhesive spray from his belt and closed the wound.

"Begin CPR," said Bruce, slipping some leads from a belt pouch and attaching them into his secondary power pack on his belt. He applied the leads to the Joker.

"Analyzing, stand clear," said Bruce and Quinzel leaned back. He checked the sensor.

"Charging, clear!" he said. He shocked him. He checked the sensor feed.

"No!" Bruce cried. "Charging, clear!"

Quinzel dissolved into tears. He shocked The Joker again, and again he checked the sensor.

"No!" he thundered. He pounded on the Joker's chest. He pulled an epinephrine syringe from his belt and pressed it between the Joker's ribs into his heart. He shocked him again and found no sinus rhythm.

"Come on!" he shouted, backhanding the Joker across the face. "Come on!"

Clenching his fist, he slammed him in the chest once, twice, three times. And, with a nearly painfully constricted drag, the Joker inhaled. His heart was pumping.

With a heartfelt cry, Quinzel's sobs redoubled, and she pulled him onto her lap, but the Joker only had eyes for Bruce.

"You couldn't let me go," he wheezed, taking a long moment to catch his breath. "You think what you did makes you strong, but it doesn't. You were willing to risk compromising your own morals to do what you needed to save your precious city but couldn't do what was needed to keep it safe. You are a coward who risks failure but can't stand its consequences."

Bruce reached into the cellphone wreckage pulled out the SIM card.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on the point," said Bruce. "As little as you truly value yourself, no deed you have done makes you so worthless as to deserve death. I'm never going to stop trying to prove you wrong."

The Joker smiled, "Nor I you."

The trapdoor up was blown upwards, and SWAT came bustling in, Gordon two steps behind them.

"We got him," he breathed. "Oh thank god."

"We need a bus," said Bruce. "He has an incision around his heart that will need to be properly closed, has had CPR performed on him, and he should be sedated as soon as possible."

"And her?" asked Gordon. Quinzel looked affronted.

"Aiding and abetting," said Bruce.

The Joker looked incensed, "What are you talking about? She's not with me. She almost ruined the whole thing!"

"She was there when he took Fox," said Bruce.

Gordon frowned, "Sounds mostly like conjecture unless you have a witness that can identify her."

Bruce turned to her, and, after a long calculating moment, said, "If they take you in and you are uncooperative, any crime you are charged with will have you taken to Blackgate."

She looked suddenly frantic, "Yeah! It was me! I was helping Mr. J! I love him! He needs me!"

"What?" squawked The Joker.

"Arkham it is," said Gordon, looking equally dismayed and amused.

The main computer finished its work.

"There is a bomb in each section of town," said Bruce. "I don't have exact addresses, but I have a solid triangulation of each."

Someone pulled out a map, and Bruce indicated each.

"Here, here, and here," he said. "These locations are approximate without more precise height measurements on each wireless network in the area."

"Anything else?" asked Gordon.

The alert came through at that moment. It was an Omega level alert.

"I have to go," said Bruce, never feeling more tired in his entire life.

"You need anything else from us?" asked Gordon as Bruce headed out onto the parapet.

"If I do, I'll ask," said Bruce and dove over the edge.

He landed in the Batmobile a few minutes later, sure he was prepared for Clark warring with the military or Luthor or whatever else could be happening. But as he watched the news feeds coming in, seeing the videos popping up all over the world of Clark battling three figures in black, who appeared to be of the same scale of power as Clark himself, Bruce felt cold, suddenly understanding that the Omega level was indeed justified. The world as humanity knew it was on the brink of ending.


	28. 28 - The Neverending Battle

"Lucius," said Bruce into the communicator. "Bring me up to speed."

"The counter antigen is ready," Fox replied, "but it sounds like you won't need it."

"That won't be seen until G.C.P.D. disarms the bombs," responded Bruce. "Start production on a small scale, covering any officers or officials who might be exposed. What do you know about the Superman situation?"

"Not much more than the public at the moment," said Fox. "Superman presented himself for arrest and trial. They took him into LexCorp Tower and after only minutes, these three burst out and started fighting Superman. At first, they seemed to be little more than abnormally strong and durable, but from the feeds, they are well on their way to matching Superman in speed, strength, and endurance."

Bruce pulled up his satellite control, "I'm tracking them now. They seem to be heading across the Pacific back towards us."

"Any ideas?" asked Lucius. "From what I can get off the news feeds, it looks like there was a flurry of military activity. Techs running cables and such around the square outside of the LexCorp Tower from inside the building. They might have a plan."

Bruce suddenly switched over to the news feeds, flipping through feeds until he found what he was looking for. Lois Lane was standing near the side of the plaza, near her father. There wasn't a single expression on her face. Her emotions were on complete lockdown. They did have a plan, and it was one that had a high probability of working if it worked. And, from the emotions that Lane was refusing to let herself acknowledge that she might have to feel, it might just cost Clark his life.

"You insufferable...," Bruce said under his breath.

"What's up?" asked Lucius.

"I can't say," said Bruce. "Never know who might be listening."

Bruce watched as they landed in Metropolis, fighting with a speed and a focus that was immeasurable, beyond simple human perception. He watched as they moved closer and closer to the square, though they bobbed and weaved and staggered and shifted about. And then, with a flash that took a section of the ground with it, the fighting stopped. It was over, until Bruce caught that two were still left; Clark, and one other, one full of tyrannical poise and blustering anger.

That battle that followed wasn't easily followed by the media. There were shouts and booms, lots of sound and fiery, and some brief footage caught of the two landing blows upon each other, toe to toe, might verse might, with Superman turning the tide.

The media lost track as Bruce pulled into the cave, dragging himself from the Batmobile and lumbering his way to the computer. By the time he got back, the scene had changed.

Clark was the would-be victor, except the Luthor had intervened in a mechanized suit, killing Superman's defeated foe and pressing his advantage.

Bruce had had enough. He took a deep breath than counted to ten. He sat at his terminal, and began looking for the LX6s. As he jumped from camera to camera, he found what he was looking for. A scientist, from his lab coat, that the computer identified as Emil Hamilton, standing behind the LX6s, trying to access a rear panel. Bruce frowned, until he saw Lois standing to one side, and from her guiding posture, Bruce smiled at the woman's level head, understanding Clark's interest. The scientist looked frustrated and it was obvious that things weren't going well.

Began searching for the LX6s addresses, but couldn't find them. Finally, he picked up the phone, turning on his high-level encryption and punch a few buttons.

"Hello?" asked a confused voice.

Bruce looked at the military tech standing beside the square talking into his cell phone, standing next to General Lane.

"Turn to your left and give the phone to General Lane," said Bruce.

"Who is this?" the voice asked.

"Lane!" Bruce snarled. "Now!"

He checked his other screen. Luthor would be seen giving Superman the beating of a lifetime, if he had been giving it to anyone but Superman.

"Tom?" said Lane into the phone.

"Give me the addresses to access the LX6s wirelessly," demanded Bruce.

"Who is this?" retorted Lane.

"We don't have time for this, General," said Bruce. "If you want to save the man who has saved countless lives, who has saved the world who knows how many times over just today, who will continue to fight and save it until his dying breath, I need those addresses."

He watched as the General pulled out a small tablet.

"I have them here," he said. "How can I get them to you?"

Bruce adjusted the camera, "Hold them up, facing outwards, your two o'clock, sir. A few more degrees to your right. There. Hold it. Got them."

The main computer read the addresses, used them, and, within moments, got through.

"There will be a reckoning," said The General.

"I don't doubt it, sir," said Bruce and hung up.

He watched as the computer began to strip down the LX6s' code and rebuild it from the ground up. The main thrust of the change was to make them controllable by the main computer, remove any of Luthor's overrides, and maintain their inability to hurt humans. It was a few minutes before it worked. The LX6s went to Superman's aid.

Bruce folded, seeing Superman's flight upwards, to the sun, and his return, fully restored. He watched just long enough to see that the rest was handled, then slumped in his chair. He wasn't sure how long it was until Pennyworth arrived, but he was hoisted upwards, a shoulder under his, and taken to his rooms.

"Today was a good day for you, sir," said Pennyworth quietly. "You save the city and helped save the world. Who knows where we would be without you today."

He helped Bruce into his washroom, taking his gear as it was pitched over the privacy screen.

"I almost killed a man today, Alfred," said Bruce. "I saved the most dangerous man this city has ever seen, and I was all but powerless to help what could be the greatest man this world has known in the worse battle humanity has ever seen."

Pennyworth sighed so quietly that his charge couldn't hear him over the shower.

"With all due respect, sir," he said as his charge stepped out minutes later, "will you ever give up on expecting perfection from yourself?"

"No, Alfred," he said. "I could always do better, and I will never stop trying to be."

"Sir," said Pennyworth, as Bruce toweled off, putting on his sleepwear. "If Superman is one of the greatest men this world has known, I think today you have proven yourself his peer."

"Thank Alfred," Bruce said as Pennyworth walked him to his bed, ready to catch the man should he fall.

"Wake me in six hours," said Bruce, slumping into bed.

"You need your rest, sir," said Pennyworth, in the closed tone to admonishment he ever used.

"This isn't yet over," said Bruce, taking up his tablet. "I will need to work fast if I am to sort this out. Six is all I can spare."

Pennyworth nodded, "As you say, sir."

Bruce accessed the main computer from his tablet on his bedside table. He made some final adjustments to the LX6s coding, making them voice activated and setting them to one voice in particular, though he left a back door so that he could deactivate them if necessary with a specific key phrase. Then he reestablished their firewall with a varied encryption of equal power and he recorded a simple message to be relay upon activation.

"Clark. There wasn't a whole lot I could do to assist you in your recent operations with my current resources, especially not when the fight was going on a world away. But, I was able to assist Dr. Hamilton when I discovered that he was trying to circumvent the LX6s. Their narrow band A.I.s are still intact, but everything Luthor put into them has been removed. I fed them samplings of your voice, and they will recognize only your vocal commands. They are capable of learning and regulating new behaviors. They are better off in your hands than anyone else's. Bruce."

Setting the tablet aside, he rolled over and started making a list of what he needed before he was completely asleep.


	29. Epilogue

Amanda Waller walked through her office door, the low level classified file in her hands. The red paper that was unable to be scanned and copied and fluoresced under most flashes always strained her eyes, and while she would never show such weakness amid her peers, here in her own office, she allowed herself the comfort of rubbing her tired eyes. She turned and sat, shifting the file to place it in the organized single stack when he caught her eyes.

She didn't jump, which Bruce found most useful information. She looked up, her eyes widening enough to take in extra information, but not so much to denote an overreaction due to fear. She measured him, gauged him, calculated a response and acted. Bruce readjusted his tactic.

"I figured that it was time that we spoke," he said, his tone offering nothing.

"Very well," said Waller, her tone no different.

"The world is changing," said Bruce. "Power is starting to achieve some exponential growth. It is easier to get things done, be it good or ill. When a more efficient method comes along, the old system tense to disappear. I can understand why that might make the government uneasy."

"This isn't about fear," said Waller.

Bruce paused, "You aren't going to bait me into a tirade to prove how right I am. This is about facts, no opinions."

Waller readjusted her tactics.

"We aren't in the business of maintaining the status quo," said Waller. "If the government needs to change to stay relevant, it will. Our job is to make sure it whatever it changes into something still has the interests of the people in mind."

"An argument can be made that the government doesn't have the interests of the people in mind now," said Bruce.

Waller's eyes narrowed, "I thought we were speaking of opinions."

"You cannot deny," Bruce said forcefully, "the benefit of Superman. He has acted in the interest of the people, and he has prevented genocide where you could not. That is not opinion."

Waller blinked at him.

"What is it exactly that you want?" she asked, her tone cool.

"I want you out of the way of progress," said Bruce, his tone just as cold. "The government may change as best it can to keep with the times, but we will change too, and among us are those who have the power and the morality to do what is right."

"If not the legality?" asked Waller with a touch of cynicism.

Bruce's smile was grim and humorless, "This country was born of the shoulders of men and women who did what was in the best interest of its people, despite the governing power of the day. We reserve the right to do the same."

"And what if we say no?" asked Waller, more hard than harsh.

"Whether you are willing to admit it or not," said Bruce calmly, "you need us. The world is becoming a better place by way of lower infant mortality, less accidental deaths, less poor and starving people, but it is not becoming a safer place. We lost one an experimental aircraft last week, the plane and it's pilot Steve Trevor disappearing without a trace. It is the first time we have lost an Air Force pilot in almost forty years. LexCorp is just the first of many companies doing experiments with metahumans. There have been at least two crashes of alien crafts here in the last thirty years. More powerful robots are appearing. The work of Professor Ivo and Tomas Morrow come to mind. There have been more cases of nonhuman technology discovered in the last year than every year before it combined. It is only a matter of time before you will be unable to police the general public. We will have to police ourselves. You have tried to prevent us from doing so, and look what happened. I want you to never do it again."

"Again," said Waller, "what if we say no?"

Bruce stared for a long moment, "You know what. We are powerful enough to defend ourselves, and that will get messy, for both of us. And while we are so focused on each other, neither will be able to do our jobs and the people will suffer."

"We don't need to work separately," said Waller, her tone warm but not overly so. "Come work for us. Imagine what you could do with the funds and the resources of the U.S. Government behind you. Think of the good you could do."

"I don't play well with others," said Bruce. "Besides, you and I have very different ideas of what good means."

"We understand that you might appear..." Waller began, "necessary, from a certain point of view. But we are not helpless and without our own resources. We will never stop trying to make you unnecessary."

Bruce nodded, "The day you succeed, I will hang up my cape."

He turned and looked out the side window. Waller looked too, to see a VTOL jet of some kind lift off the neighboring rooftop, turning to face the building. It looked sleek and dangerous and as she reached for the phone to call it in, she realized that she was now alone in her office. Dialing, she said into the receiver, "Let him go. Don't try to track it."

The jet flew over the roof of the building, no doubt picking up its pilot. As its roar rumbled into the distance, Waller reached down and picked up a tablet from her desk. She scanned her eye with it and opened it. She scanned through a few pictures; a blonde girl in a tank, a one-eyed man in orange and black wielding duel katana, a jewelry store thief stepping out of a mirror, a solider leading a black ops squadron, a women in leather cracking a whip to destroy the camera recording her, a monstrous white-skinned alien, and sorceresses in purple hair and green robes standing before a tiger half in SWAT gear, and finally, a top-secret Air Force file labeled Project Atom.

"We'll see."


End file.
